


Fair Child

by Flutiebear



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: AU, Additional Warnings Apply, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Flirting, Bisexuality, Class Differences, Class Issues, Classism, Cooking, Dancing, Drama, Dress Up, F/F, F/M, Fabulous Shoes, Forced Marriage, Gossip, Humor, Isn't it Romantic?, Love, Love Confessions, Love Triangles, M/M, Makeover, Mistaken Identity, Parties, References to Suicide, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Sabrina AU, Secrets in the Deep Roads, Stories about renegade elephants, Temporarily Unrequited Love, Unrequited Love, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 21:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 67,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/866889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flutiebear/pseuds/Flutiebear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sabrina AU. Merrill, the daughter of the Amell family chauffeur, has been in love with Garrett Hawke all her life, but the flighty, charismatic playboy doesn't even know she exists. All that changes when she returns from Val Royeaux the very picture of beauty and sophistication. She catches Garrett's eye, but is it his brother, Carver, who is really her ideal match?  [Updates every Tuesday]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Party

**Author's Note:**

> For iheartapostates on Tumblr, who many months ago drew a Linus!Carver and Sabrina!Merrill artwork that captured my heart. A HUGE thanks to jkateel and missl0nelyhearts, my darling betas.
> 
> So far this story and its dialogue stick very closely to the original Sabrina film (1954 version). I expect future chapters to deviate more, though the basic plot and structure should remain the same. Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill attends a party, in a manner of speaking.

Once upon a time in the Hightown district of Kirkwall, some 30 miles from Starkhaven, there lived a small girl on a large estate.

The Amell estate was very large indeed, and had many servants. There were elves to take care of the gardens, and a vhenadahl surgeon on retainer. There was an elf to take care of the banners: to hang them in the spring, and scrape the snow off them in the winter. There were elves to take care of the grounds: the outdoor tennis court and the indoor tennis court; the outdoor swimming pool and the indoor swimming pool—and a young dwarf of no particular title who took care of a small pool in the garden for a goldfish named Enchantment.

Also on the estate there was a car-Keeper by the name of Marethari, who had been imported from the Sundermount some years ago, together with a new Chrysler Aravel. Marethari was a fine chauffeur of considerable polish, like the eight Dalish-make cars in her care. And she had a daughter by the name of Sabrae-da Merrill Fairchild—a grand name indeed, but everyone called her Merrill for short.

It was the eve of the annual Feastdays, and as had been the tradition for many years, the Amells were giving a party. It never rained on the night of an Amell party. The Amells wouldn’t have stood for it.

The tables had been set and the patio swept; the champagne chilled and the linens pressed. Along the trellises the elves had hung long garlands, adding festive pops of red, purple and blue. And now that it was the appointed hour, guests and servants both had dressed in their finest tuxedos and gowns, the whole lot of them crisp and spotless as a painting.

The only two missing from the garden that night were Marethari and Merrill. Earlier that afternoon, Marethari had noticed how her daughter’s fingertips had lingered longingly on the garlands, and she’d decided that each of the cars in turn needed a good scrubbing, post-haste. That was just the way Marethari was. At all times she insisted the vehicles in her care be kept at a prim sheen, so as to remind everyone of the necessity of her station, and their own.

Merrill performed her filial duty, because that was the way she was too. But every few moments she found herself looking in the direction of the garden, where came the sound of violins almost mournful under the starlight. Eventually the pull of it became too much to resist. She laid the rag in her hand gently on the car hood. Leaving it and her shoes and her still-scrubbing mother behind, Merrill gave in and followed the music.

On the other side of the green she could see them dancing: the men in their strapping tuxes, the ladies in chiffon gowns, even the elves pirouetting among them with their trays and heavy bottles. Together they whirled like children’s toys across the starlit patio.

To get a better view, Merrill hoisted herself into a nearby tree, her bare feet scraping against the bark as she settled.

From this height she could see beyond the dancers and right into the manor hours, where several people had gathered in the sitting room. She knew who they were. They were the Amells, and there were four in all: Uncle, Mother, and two sons – though the last three were in fact Hawkes, not Amells. It was a technicality with which nobody in Kirkwall bothered, as they possessed a suitable enough fortune to retain the title and besides, they had come back home in the end.

Leandra and Malcolm Hawke had been married in 9:06 Dragon. Among their many wedding presents was a town house in Ferelden, and this estate for weekends. Malcolm had died several years back, and the town house had since been converted into a recruitment center for the Grey Wardens. After his death Leandra had moved herself and her sons into this estate, with her brother Gamlen soon to follow.

Uncle Gamlen, a former wallop player of some renown, had taken well to the business of being the man of the house. He particularly excelled in the procurement and consumption of various fine liquors.

There was also Carver Hawke, the younger son, graduated from the local Gallows University, where his classmates voted him the Templar most likely to leave his alma mater millions.

Then there was his brother, Garrett. He did the least work and was therefore considered the most eligible of the three Amell bachelors. He went through several of the best Marcher colleges for short periods of time, and through several marriages for even shorter periods of time. He was now, like his Uncle before him, a successful six-goal wallop player, and was listed on Carver’s tax return as a six sovereign deduction.

Truly, life was pleasant for the Amells—this was as close to heaven as one could get.

Now the Amells had gathered to take a picture in front of the great fireplace, above which hung an older portrait of a similar setting and style, but which featured a family much younger and larger. In that picture there was a pigtailed girl who’d died in childhood for reasons Merrill was never quite sure of, and a grand man with an even grander beard that even Garrett’s couldn’t quite match.

In the current arrangement, Uncle and Mother Amell stood in the center, their spines as rigid as their smiles. Carver, on the Antivan settee, kept his back partly turned to the photographer. He always took his pictures this way. In profile he looked very regal indeed, very commanding and business-like. But the position always left half his face—the more comely half, in Merrill’s opinion—hidden in shadow.

Then there was Garrett, a vision of roguish charm in his spotless white tuxedo and purple bowtie. He’d turned a chair around to straddle it as he might a horse. Unlike the others, he looked perfectly at ease as they waited for the photographer to fumble with his curtain and spotlight. But that was just the way Garrett was too. His smile was always cock-eyed and ready to be deployed at a moment’s notice, and in fact that was one of the many things Merrill adored about him.

On some objection from the photographer, Carver perked up and looked down at the copy of _The Merchants Guild Daily_ still in his front pocket. But rather than toss it aside, he merely transferred it from one pocket to another and resumed his noble profile.

Finally the photographer snapped his picture. The smile fell from Garrett’s lips and rose to Mother’s as a rush of guests swarmed the Amells. Carver, ever the dutiful son, stood by her side while Uncle scurried away, likely off to find a spare bottle of champagne and slake his insatiable thirst.

Garrett too retreated from the swarm, apparently content to leave society matters in the hands of his family. Merrill watched as he walked over to a nearby floral arrangement, and from it plucked two white roses. With a smile on his lips, he slipped one into his lapel.

Then he meandered over to one of the servants, a slim and dour fellow Merrill knew only as Anders. It wasn’t his true name, of course. But when he’d come to the estate some months ago seeking work, he’d offered little else by way of self-explanation besides a strong Anderfellian accent, and the name had stuck.

Anders was a serious sort and quite concerned for a servant about current affairs; there were whispers among the servants that he might even be a Marxist. But those rumors had come to nothing, for almost as soon as he’d arrived he’d made fast friends with the elder Amell son. Garrett trusted Anders’s opinion on all matters, and it was a rare day indeed to find the two men separated. Anders even accompanied Garrett to his away wallop matches, no matter how far-flung the destination might be.

Garrett leaned in and said something to his friend. But whatever it was, Anders did not seem amused by it—indeed, tonight he seemed even more dour than usual. Garrett then slid the remaining flower into Anders’s lapel and clapped his friend on the shoulder. He walked away, leaving Anders to peer down at his new boutonniere with a mixture of wistfulness and distrust.

Merrill knew that look well. Garrett had a way of leaving a person like that, like you weren’t sure if he’d mocked or made love to you, or perhaps both at once.  

As Garrett made his way toward the garden, a fetching young woman swathed in yellow silk and chiffon dashed toward him. Garrett grabbed her hand and she broke into a wide smile. Together they floated toward the patio like a pair of clouds.

Then Garrett caught the eye of someone across the room, maybe Anders, maybe Mother Amell. In response, he pulled the girl close and swayed with her, entirely out of step to the music, guiding her to the patio and away from the disapproving eye he’d met. When he smiled down at her, his face was as charming and radiant as the surface of the moon.

Merrill tightened her grip on the branch.

 _“I’d reach for you like I’d reach for a star,”_ sung the band leader, as Garrett and the girl whirled together in close embrace, _“worshipping you from afar…”_

It was a very lovely song, thought Merrill, until it was punctuated by the girl’s high-pitched giggles. She leaned heavily on Garrett, running her perfectly-manicured nails through his hair. For his part, Garrett smiled agreeably enough, though his posture suggested that he was expending considerable effort just to keep her upright.

Across the patio, Anders scrunched his face in disgust, a sentiment which Merrill approved of greatly. She closed her eyes against the display before her.

But she did not come down from her tree. And nor could she look away for long, just as a moth couldn’t turn his face from the flame.

So Merrill looked back, just in time to see Garrett press a sweet kiss to the lady’s temple. The girl  responded with even more giggles. She just would not stop _giggling._ She couldn’t possibly be talking with Garrett, getting to know him better and making a connection; no, it was just giggle, giggle, _giggle._

Merrill was so incensed that she didn’t even hear the crunch of twigs behind her.

“Come on down from there, _da’len._ Come on,” said Marethari, startling Merrill into nearly falling from her tree. Marethari had a funny way of speaking that was kind and gentle but also unbearably prim. No matter how long she’d been away from the Sundermount, she maintained her accent, polishing it as she did the cars, keeping it safe like a precious family heirloom. And unlike the other servants, she used the old tongue freely and without shame. The Amells didn’t seem to mind her quirk much, but their silence hadn’t encouraged other servants into the same practice. “You’d better go to your room and finish your packing.”

Merrill sighed. She looked down at her hands clasped along the bough, and suddenly felt small and ridiculous and ashamed. Yet it was only with great reluctance that she climbed out of her tree. Once out, however, her hand remained on the branch, as she was not quite ready yet to let go of the tree or the sight of Garrett in his white tux. “Who’s that girl, Mother?”

“Which girl?” said Marethari in a tired voice.

“The one dancing with Garrett.”

Marethari flicked her eye over the party and its guests. As if on cue, the cruel sound of giggles wafted through the garden. “Her name’s du Launcet. Fifi du Launcet,” she replied. “Kirkwall National Bank.”

The sound of Fifi’s name and her family’s connections was like a knife through Merrill’s heart. Gaze falling, she was painfully aware of how very small she was, how very small and ordinary.

“I hate girls that giggle all the time,” she said.

“You hate every girl that Garrett looks at.” Marethari offered her a prunish face. “Merrill, you can’t go on like this about Garrett all your life. You understand that. You’ve got to get over it.”

 _It._ Marethari had said _it_ , as if Garrett were an unruly bush, one that Merrill could simply pull from her heart by the root with one good yank.  Her hands trembled on the branch. “Yes, Mother.”

“It’s good you’re going away,” continued Marethari loftily. “I only hope it’s far enough.”

Merrill’s hand slipped along the branch, chipping off the tip of her nail. She did not raise her eyes. “Yes, Mother.”

“Come along, Merrill.” Then Marethari held out Merrill’s shoes. They were dingy, small things without any jewels or feathers, and they’d been re-soled several times by Marethari’s own hand. An act of love, Merrill knew, but she hated it now. Hated the shoes, hated Marethari, hated everything, especially giggles.

She took the shoes anyway. “In a minute, Mother. You go ahead. I’ll be up soon.”

Marethari said nothing, but her eyes, fierce and pitying, remained on Merrill as she walked back toward the apartment they shared.

For a long moment, Merrill stared at the shoes and leaned against the tree, letting the music wash over her in one unbroken tide. She cast a final plaintive look toward the party.

Garrett had wheeled Fifi over to a discreet corner, far from the other guests. He’d pushed her against the wall, hands flat against the brick on either side of her shoulders. Her eyes remained fixed on him as if he were made of solid gold.

He whispered something in her ear. With a scandalous grin on her perfectly-painted lips, Fifi shook her head. Then he whispered further. She looked at him, flustered and amused and interested all at once, and nodded her acceptance at whatever proposal he’d offered. Then she dipped herself out from between his arms and ran down the garden lawn, passing Merrill without so much as a nod. She ran toward the tennis courts, giggling all the while.

Merrill clenched her jaw. Just because she was a chauffeur's daughter didn’t mean she lacked a woman’s pride.

Head held high, she watched as Garrett swanned over to the bar, picking out a bottle and stuffing two glasses in his back pockets. The bartender, a chatty man named Corff, asked a question of Garrett, who shrugged in response. When he took the bottle from Corff, Garrett offered a sparing, distracted smile that did not quite meet his eyes.

He made his way through the guests and out the garden, toward Merrill’s tree. Heart pounding, she pressed herself against the trunk, instinctively willing herself to disappear.

But it was now or never. She’d never get a chance like this, not now, not ever again. So as soon as he’d passed, she leapt out from the tree’s shadows.

Garrett stumbled back a few feet in surprise.

“Oh, it’s you, Merrill.” His voice was relaxed, easy, and he gave her a wide, genuine smile.

At her side her hands balled into fists, and she kept her posture very, very rigid.

“Hello, Garrett,” she managed.

“I thought I heard somebody,” he said, then he was gone, gone, trotting down the path toward Fifi’s giggles like a mabari to a master’s whistle.

Merrill watched him go.

“You were wrong,” she said quietly, her voice drowned out by the violins. “It’s only nobody.”

He disappeared out of sight and before she knew it she too was following them down to the tennis courts, like a small elven shadow. She knew of this routine of his, at least in an academic sense, but never before had she dared follow him mid-conquest. But it was her last night in Kirkwall, perhaps forever, and she was determined to see it. For though she might never be Fifi, she could still learn what it meant to _be_ her, if only from a distance.

She caught up to them at the tennis courts. On his shoulder Garrett held the bottle of champagne like a sword, as if he were a Nevarran dragonslayer storming off to battle. Strutting across the outdoor court, he yanked open the door to the indoor court and sauntered in. He kicked up his heel, a small burst of triumph. He enjoyed this, she knew. The rush of competition. The feel of conquest. The game was his element.

Her mother was right. She shouldn’t watch this. She should return to her packing, or at least to the car washing. Yet still she skittered across the tennis court, something huge and empty inside her beckoning her forward. Behind a tall decorative pine she concealed herself and peeked through the window to the court within.

“Hello?” Garrett called out. Though the lights were down, the net had been left strung, as if awaiting players. “Yoo hoo! Anyone fancy a match?”

The girl stood on the other side of the court, her back coyly turned to Garrett. The horrible sound of her giggling was audible even through the thick glass pane. How odd, Merrill thought, for Fifi to play the coquettish virgin now, when she’d already acquiesced to meeting him here in the shadowy tennis court—but then again, some rich ladies liked to play the fool just as much as they liked men to play the fool on their behalf.

“What do we call this?” said Garrett, eyeing her turned back cheekily. “Mixed singles?”

He began to hop the net, but she turned and stopped him with a firm shake of her head. “No, no, no! Don’t you know the rules? You must stay on your side of the net.”

“Rules? Why, I was never much for those,” he said, adding “Fifi” after a slight hesitation, as if he were trying to remember her name.

“But Garrett,” she said in mock scandal. “You _must_ play by the rules. Else it won’t be a fair game for everyone.” As lovely as she was, thought Merrill, her dress was as yellow as a tennis ball, and her voice shrill enough to shatter glass. But at least she’d quit her infernal giggling.

Garrett shrugged and removed his leg from the netting. “Fine then. I suppose I’ll serve.”

He placed the flutes on the ground and unwrapped the champagne. When he popped the cork, it slammed into the window right at Merrill’s head. She ducked in panic..

But neither of the players had noticed her or the errant cork. Garrett handed a full glass to Fifi, who took it and glided back out of reach. He let his hand drop slowly in a thoroughly charming and calculated manner. Fifi stared him down, gulped her glass in one go and did not blink.

When she turned her back again, the smile on Garrett’s face faltered. His clever fingers began to dance on the netting between them as he slowly made his way to the side court.

When he reached the end, he slapped the crank, and the netting that separated them fell to the ground. Fifi whirled around. There was no giggle on her lips now.

Merrill’s mouth dropped open. She had the inexplicable feeling she’d just seen something terribly dirty, and she wished that she understood why.

Garrett stalked toward Fifi like a hound to the fox, while she shuffled backwards. Her eyes narrowed. She smiled, large and wolfish and with too many teeth. Back and back she stepped into the shadows of the court, and still Garrett advanced. Who exactly was the prey, wondered Merrill, and who was the predator?

Then Garrett placed his hand on Fifi’s hip, and the moment was shattered. Merrill could look no more.

She stood up and allowed one huge sob to rack her tiny frame. Then she remembered herself, lifting her chin as a proud chauffeur's daughter did. And like that she walked, chin held tight and high and proud, away from the tennis court and the man who didn’t love her and the life that could never, ever be hers.


	2. The Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brokenhearted Merrill makes a fateful decision, while Carver (and his rump) exhibit excellent timing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ***TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDAL THOUGHTS, SUICIDE ATTEMPT***
> 
> One more quick note: The bit about "Zazikel's Star" is 100% my creation, and is not canonical. Canon only states that the planet Thedas is on has two moons, one of which is named Satina.

Back in the garden, the band had switched to a sleepy little ditty, the kind written expressly so that winsome women in equally winsome gowns would have socially-acceptable excuses to drape themselves across their escorts. Merrill broke into a run, past the party and into the driveway, her shoes slapping like accusations on the still-wet concrete.

Up the curling staircase she ran, taking the steps two at a time, until she reached the apartment above the garage she shared with her mother. Even here she could still hear the party guests’ laughter. There was no refuge, no escape.

When she reached the landing, she forced herself to slow, tip-toeing her way past the open windows as quietly as possible. But her efforts were to no avail, for just as her hand fell on the doorknob to her room, Marethari’s voice rang out, clear as a bell.

 _“Da’len_?” She stiffly leaned out the window of their small, shared bathroom, as if bending over to serve tea.

Merrill sighed and dragged herself back to the bathroom window. “Yes, Mother?”

Marethari was dressed in a crisp cotton bathrobe, her hair pinned neatly to the top of her head. In the low light, her vallaslin popped out against her pale skin. She smiled at Merrill the same way she might at a skinned knee. “You won't forget your passport in the morning?”

“I won’t, Mother.”

“You know, it isn’t every girl who’s lucky enough to go to Val Royeaux.”

“I know.”

Marethari’s smile faltered.

“It’s the best cooking schoolin Thedas, Merrill,” she said, studying her daughter’s face. “If your Father were alive, he’d be very happy to know you’d been admitted, very happy indeed. After all, he was the best cook in Kirkwall. Imagine his delight to know his daughter keeps the family tradition alive.”

Merrill’s gaze drifted back toward the party, over which hung the full moon, so bright and beautiful and far out of reach. Somewhere behind it was Satina, the dark moon. Zazikel’s star, they called it: invisible to the naked eye, forever hidden in its brother’s shadow. Merrill had never felt so close a kinship to a celestial body in all her life.

“Oh, _da’len_ ,” continued her mother. “I’m not saying you must become a cook as your Father was, or a chauffeur like me, or even that you must marry one or the other. But—“ Marethari brow softened as she recalled an old, familiar pain, “—your father and I had a good life together. We respected the old ways and were respected by everyone in turn. That’s as much as anyone can want in this world.” She paused, waiting until she’d caught Merrill’s eye before continuing. “Don’t reach for the moon, Merrill.”

Swallowing back tears, Merrill gave what she hoped was a sufficiently dutiful nod. “No, Mother.”

“Besides, it never hurt an elf to learn how to cook, did it, _da’len_?” Merrill shook her head no, and her mother turned back to the bathroom sink to wash her hands. “I’ll wake you at seven. The boat goes at noon. Good night.”

“Good night.” Merrill boiled with resentment as she watched Marethari dry her hands on a nearby towel. As if it all were that easy, as if all her problems might be solved with a good, hard scrubbing. That was her mother’s solution to everything.

Merrill walked back to her room and closed the door. Hers was a comfortable enough space, well-lit and supplied with durable furniture of her mother’s purchase—there were no secondhand antiques from the Amells in here. In one corner was a rocking chair that had once been her Father’s; in another, a collection of his books, mostly on Dalish history. She’d read and re-read them all several times, especially the parts about the Dalish kings and queens of old.

Merrill switched off the lamp so she wouldn’t have to see any of it.

She drifted toward her bed, upon which was her open valise. It was still mostly empty, though several dresses and scarves lay in colorful chaos across her bed’s steel frame. Merrill lifted a blouse, still on its hanger, and regarded it for a long moment. Then, disgusted, she dropped it back on the quilt.

Like a ghost she drifted over to her Father’s chair and sat. She rocked herself slowly, listening to the music still playing in the garden below.

 _“Isn’t it romantic?”_ sang the band leader, _“Music in the night, a dream that can be heard.”_

If she could hear his song, then likely Garrett and Fifi could too. She imagined them canoodling on the courts, swaying back and forth to the rhythm. Maybe they could keep time by Fifi’s giggling.

Merrill sighed. This was it. This was the end of her life as she knew it. In the morning she’d ship off to Val Royeaux, away from the man she loved and everybody she knew, all to achieve someone else’s dream. Garrett didn’t love her. Garrett would never love her. But it wasn’t just that. She didn’t want to learn to cook. She didn’t want to marry a car-Keeper and live in an apartment above a garage and address women like Fifi as mi’lady or men like Garrett as messere. She wanted everything. She wanted nothing. She wanted the moon in the palm of her hand. Why couldn’t anyone understand?

She stopped rocking her chair. There was only one sure way to stop this. She must—she must do what must be done.

Merrill left her chair and sat down at her writing desk. Primly she removed a piece of stationery from its seat and in the crisp, clean hand that she’d labored so long to perfect, she penned the last letter she’d ever write.

> _Dearest Mother. I don’t want to go to Val Royeaux. I want to die. Please forgive me for what I am about to do. Goodbye, Merrill._

She was about to fold it up when a thought occurred, and she added a postscript.

> _PS: Don’t have Garrett at the funeral. He probably wouldn’t even cry._

Then she replaced the pen to its holding cup and slipped the note into an envelope, as if she would mail it with the Saturday post. Blood pounded in her ears, and her hands shook a little, but she didn’t stop to consider either. Instead she got up and made her way to the door.

On her way out Merrill noticed Griffon, her goldfish, wobbling through his tank, blissfully unaware of the raw anguish before him. Oh, to be a goldfish, and not a girl! So she gave him a little extra food and tapped his tank, to which he waggled his tail obligingly. She smiled, then stopped as soon as she remembered the task before her.

“Please forgive me, Griffon,” she whispered. “It’s not your fault either.”

Then, chin lifted, she walked out her apartment. Her mother’s windows were dark; she must be fast asleep by now. Merrill slipped the envelope under her door.

Briskly she made her way down the spiral staircase and into the garage, casting furtive glances in the direction of the party and the tennis courts. But nobody had seen her. She snuck into the garage and closed the door.

Before she could reconsider, she ran down the row of gleaming cars and one by one turned them all on. It felt strange to enter the vehicles this way, for rarely did she ever take a turn at the steering wheel herself. She felt the sudden inclination to apologize to the cars, as she might for stepping on a stranger’s toes. But she couldn’t stop now. She had a mission to accomplish, and quickly, before the combined vibration of eight rumbling engines woke up her mother.

She slid into Garrett’s small 9:31 Dragon Sport Coupe. This was not a car he let Marethari or anybody else drive, and for that matter she’d never seen anyone but Anders ride in it. She sat still for a long moment, feeling the ridges of the seat cushion under her fingers. Then she turned on the ignition and tried to be mindful of the leather.

Then it was into the final vehicle, the old 9:06 Ferelden Rambler that Garrett had been restoring for months in between wallop matches. He loved this car, Merrill knew, though for what reason she couldn’t guess; to her it seemed the automotive equivalent of a moth-eaten scarf, and just as ugly and unsalvageable.  When she started it, exhaust puffed from the back end in great, black clouds.

Merrill climbed out of the Rambler and examined her handiwork. Already the garage had become foggy and dank. She could barely see to the other end.

Smiling faintly, she sat down in front of Garrett’s coupe, leaned her increasingly heavy head against the garage wall, and waited for the inevitable to come to pass.

And waited.

And waited.

She frowned. This sure was taking a while.

Suddenly, from deepin her belly, came a cough so powerful that afterward little spasms racked her frame like aftershocks. She leapt to her feet. On instinct, she opened one of the garage windows to let in the fresh night air.

But as soon as music began to waft in through the window she realized what she’d done. Sighing, she closed her eyes and pressed her forehead to the cool garage wall.

What a mess she was. She couldn’t even kill herself properly. Not that it mattered. Not that any of it mattered. She slid down the wall again, a sad, tired smile on her lips. She’d be off to Val Royeaux in the morning and none of this would ever matter. But the hopelessness of her situation didn’t seem to bother her quite as much anymore. In fact, nothing seemed to bother her overmuch right now. All was smoke and dark and bone-deep weariness. Maybe she should just let it be what it was. Merrill curled up against the wall like a babe to its mother. Through heavy lashes she lifted her gaze to the window. The moon was higher still, so bright and beautiful and generous, just like Garrett’s smile. The spasms came again and once more she tried to cough, but it was getting harder now, harder to breathe, harder to focus, harder to keep her eyes on the moon. Maybe if she just rested her eyes a bit. After all they were so very heavy. Just a little bit. Just a little—

One of the doors opened with a loud _thunk_ , and moonlight flooded the garage.

Merrill’s eyes popped open.

“What’s going on here?” said a dour voice.

Oh no. _Carver_. Merrill skittered behind Garrett’s coupe before she could be seen.

Fumbling for the garage light, Carver yanked out his signature red pocket square and pressed it to his mouth. “Sabrae?” he shouted. His voice was tight, strained. “Sabrae!” He wheeled around. “Is anybody here?”

Pressing his handkerchief to his cheeks, Carver forged his way into the garage, dashing between the cars and shutting them off as fast as he could. Merrill kept as low and far back from him as possible. Her throat burned, but she swallowed her coughs as best she could—that is, until she crawled directly in front of the exhaust pipe of the old Chrysler Aravel, and couldn’t quite stifle her sputter.

Carver spun in the direction of the sound.

“Who’s there?” he called out, eyes fierce.

Merrill bit her lip and pushed herself under the Aravel’s chassis.

Then Carver was on the floor too, laying on the concrete in his fine tailored suit. Their eyes met. His were large and blue and—Merrill noted with confusion—scared. She’d never seen Carver show fear before. She wasn’t aware he knew how.

“Merrill,” he said gently, as if luring out an unruly puppy. He walked over to the Aravel. “Come out of there. Come on.”

Slowly she slid her head out. He was crouching by the car, his brows knit into a severe V.

“Why Carver,” she offered lamely, “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“What on Thedas are you up to?”

“Just—“ She wrested herself out from under the car and stood, coughing all the while, “—checking the spark plugs.”

He stared at her, mouth agape. “What?”

“Mother was worried because one of the spark plugs was missing. I—” She stumbled over her breath. Carver was very close to her and he hadn’t blinked in quite a while, and under such hard scrutiny she began to feel a little like a withered plant. Suddenly she felt very foolish. Carver had a way of doing that to people. “I wanted to find out which one it was.”

He took another step closer to her, and she backed up against the Aravel. From this distance she could smell his aftershave, and feel the heat radiating off his body in great waves. “So you started all the cars and closed all the doors?”

She lifted her eyes to the vicinity of his chin. “I didn’t want to disturb anyone,” she said defensively.

“You might never have disturbed anyone again.” He ran a hand through his hair. Merrill didn’t know why, but she got the sense Carver was angry with her for some reason. Very angry. “Does your mother know about this?”

“No!” Her voice rang out too loud in the garage, and she took a moment to collect herself before continuing. “I wanted to surprise her.”

As she spoke, her head grew dizzy and her vision swam, and Merrill stumbled against the Aravel.  Carver grabbed her elbow, one hand firm on her arm while the other snaked around her ribs. Her head reeled. She’d never noticed how large his hands were before.  Idly she wondered what a terrible time he must have finding gloves.

Then her world darkened and her knees gave out. Vaguely she was aware of him pulling her against his side and tugging her out into the driveway. She couldn’t help but think of Fifi, and how she had similarly leaned on Garrett at the party. The comparison almost made her want to giggle—if only giggling hadn’t been ruined for her forever.

When they’d gotten out, he wheeled her in front of him. His hands remained on her elbows, keeping her upright. Her vision began to clear. It was much easier to breathe out here.

“There now. Now breathe deep.” Merrill obliged him. His hand floated to her ribs, patting her in encouragement. “That’s right. Now deeper.”  

She took one deep breath and felt the world slide out from beneath her feet.

She wasn’t sure what happened next, except that it involved a strong pair of arms and a grey flannel suit, and the smell of lyrium and white roses. When she next opened her eyes, she found herself hoisted over Carver’s shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He was carrying her up the stairs. Her hands bounced along his rump. It was a nice rump, she thought, particularly from this angle. She wondered why he always concealed it in such dark and somber suits.

“What happened?”

“You passed out,” he said, his voice whisper-soft as they passed her mother’s room.

“I’m alright, I’m alright,” she wheezed. “You don’t have to carry me.”

“Right, I’m sure. Of all the idiotic things,” he said. His large, warm hand came to rest on her calf. “Haven’t you heard of carbon monoxide? It kills people.”

They reached her apartment. Finally he put her down, gently leaning her against the door. She redoubled her efforts to stay upright and keep her eyes open, to prove the point to herself as much as to Carver.

His hands fell from her waist, and he rolled his shoulders, even though she knew she couldn’t have been very heavy for him, not at his height. It must be the suit, thought Merrill. Carver was young, perhaps only a year or two older than she, but he compensated for his age by wearing only the stiffest, most uncomfortable suits money could buy.

“What would you have done if I hadn’t come along?” he continued, his voice proud and soft and interested all at once. She wished he wouldn’t look at her like that. She didn’t have the patience for it right now.

“I’d have died,” she replied flatly.

“And fast, too! Eight cars—one would have done it. It’s a good thing Mrs. Du Launcet asked me to drive her home.”

“Mrs. Du Launcet? Fifi’s mother?” Carver nodded. “But why wouldn’t Fifi drive her home?”

Carver rolled his eyes skyward. “Because we can’t find Fifi. I’ll give you one guess why.”

“She’s—” Merrill’s eyes drifted toward the tennis court, but she fell silent.

Carver’s brow cocked. “She’s what?”

“Nothing,” said Merrill. She coughed and looked down at her dirty shoes.  

“Right. Alright then.” He lifted his finger in warning. “Next time you start a car, make sure you leave the garage doors open, you understand? You’d think a chauffeur’s daughter would know better.”

“Yes, messere,” she said evenly.

He narrowed his eyes at the title but left without another word. She watched him, feeling small and lost and as bereft as ever.

When he was gone she went into her apartment and shut the blinds, blocking out the moonlight, and finally finished her packing.


	3. The First Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill learns how to crack an egg. Carver has a bad morning. The Captain makes a friend. Also: pineapples.

**Spring**

They called it the City of Dreams, and Merrill thought it was an apt name, for in Val Royeaux nothing ever made any sense. Ladies wore skirts as large as zeppelins, yet somehow they navigated the narrow, winding streets with ease. Chantries stood on every street corner, yet nobody ever seemed to go in them. And somehow, no matter where you went or how late it was, the city always smelled like coffee and fresh-baked croissants. Nothing felt natural or substantial, and Merrill sometimes had the feeling that the buildings and streets were shifting their positions the moment she looked away.

Yet there was also something about Val Royeaux in which Merrill found it easy to lose herself, an ethereal charm that recalled the storybook glamour of days long past. It was the sort of place her father might have liked, she thought, with just the right kind of absurdity he would have found profound.

Especially its cooking schools.

“I said, _viddathari_ ,” snarled a deep voice.

Merrill violently shook her head, dispelling her thoughts, and met her cooking instructor’s gaze. He was a stone-faced Qunari known only as Arishok, though whether this was his name or his title or even one word versus two, Merrill couldn’t guess.  Some of the other students said that Arishok had once been a war criminal, even that he’d once staged a failed military coup in a foreign land. But Merrill wasn’t sure how much of those stories to believe, as her fellow students only uttered them in hushed whispers, and never directly to her.  

Arishok crossed his massive arms over his apron. Around her, the rest of the class, fourteen in all, matched his gaze with varying amounts of alarm and pity.

“I assume you contemplate your vast culinary expertise,” he said, his voice booming across the workstations.

“Not at all,” she squeaked.

“Then perhaps you might deign to acquire some,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Merrill meekly nodded.

Without another glance, he turned to address the rest of class. “Yesterday you learned the Qun of boiling,” he said, his tone as crisp as a sergeant explaining battle tactics to his troops. “Today you will learn the Qun of cracking.”

Arishok held up an egg.

“This is an egg,” he said gravely.

Nobody laughed.

“The role of an egg is to be broken. Your role is to break it,” he said. “Do not struggle against your role, for you are each as the Qun dictates. Instead fulfill your role swiftly and efficiently, so that the egg may fulfill its role in kind. Watch my wrist.”

He slashed his wrist up and down as if the egg were a sword.

“ _Anaan esaam egg_ — _crack,_ ” and just like that, he snapped the egg against the bowl. Its yolk slid out agreeably. He held up the split shell. “A single slash of the wrist. Clean. Merciful. Now, _viddathari,_ ” he commanded, “take your eggs!”

The students as one reached across their workstations and took an egg in hand.

“Crack! _”_ Arishok shouted.

The students obliged. Merrill also cracked her egg—or tried to, at least, though most of the yolk escaped her grasp and splattered across her cutting board instead of in the bowl.

“New egg!” Arishok began to pace down the workstations. “Crack!”

The cracking of eggs ricocheted through the room like gunfire. Merrill, startled by the sound, dropped her egg. It landed on the floor and began to ooze from one side.

“New egg! Crack!”

But Merrill’s egg didn’t crack. She slashed her wrist, again and again, but still the stubborn thing wouldn’t break.

Finally she slammed the egg against her bowl as hard as she possibly could. It exploded—just as Arishok came to a halt right in front of her work station. He glowered at her and wiped egg from his horn.

“You must move your wrist like a whip to _dathrasi_ ,” he growled, demonstrating. “Watch.”

He took an egg and, with a quick snap, cracked it against the bowl.

“New egg,” he said.

Under his watchful glare, she took another egg and attempted to snap her hand just as he had. But the force of her grip was either too strong or not strong enough, for the egg tumbled from her hand and flew across the room, end over end. Eventually it collided with a young Fereldan, spraying her in a shower of shell and yolk and leaving a long, yellow smear across her nose.

“Perhaps I got a bad bunch of eggs,” mumbled Merrill.

“Perhaps the eggs realize you are not worthy of their sacrifice,” replied Arishok. He turned on his heel and resumed walking back down the line. “New egg!” he called out. _“Crack!_ ”

 

**Summer**

Sunshine slipped through the kitchen drapes as the Amell servants took their eggs and toast. Bodahn, the butler, sipped at his morning tea, while Orana, the housekeeper, listed sleepily beside him. By the sink their young son, Sandal, was playing with a toy salamander. At the butcher’s block, the head cook Sebastian butterflied that night’s chickens.  All in all it was a quiet morning, passing in the usual fashion—except that Marethari had had a letter from her daughter, which she’d taken the liberty of reading aloud for her coworkers.

_“Dear Mother—or chere maman—as we say over here,_ ” read Marethari from her customary seat at the head of the table. _“Isn’t my Orlesian getting good?”_

Bodahn exchanged a proud smile with Orana, while Marethari pursed her lips in disapproval.

_“We finally completed our four-week course in pies. Thank the Creators! I thought soups were difficult, but pies nearly killed me. I almost flunked my Starkhaven torte; the fish and egg kept separating on me.”_

“Too much vinegar,” offered Sebastian with a knowing smile. “I told you, Mary, if she’d wanted to learn she should have taken lessons from me instead.”

“She already has one inconvenient crush,” said Marethari, eyeing Sebastian up and down. “I’d rather spare her another.”

Sebastian laughed with some embarrassment. “That would be rather awkward, wouldn’t it? It’s true that few girls can resist a man with chicken liver under his fingernails.”

“Truly, you’re a prince in disguise,” she said dryly.

He grinned. “Speaking of, does she mention Garrett?”

Marethari was about to reply when there was a buzz at the door. Sandal sprinted to the window and pressed his nose against the glass. When he looked back, his eyes were grave.

“The scary one,” he said.

“On schedule as always,” said Marethari approvingly. She stood, adjusting her chauffeur’s hat with a brisk flick of the wrist.

“Wait, what about Garrett?” pressed Orana. “What did she say about him?”

“Not a word,” replied Marethari, scanning the letter. “Oh, no, wait. Here’s something: _‘I don’t think of Garrett much anymore—_ ‘”

“That’s good,” Orana offered.

“’ _—except in my free time.’_ ”

“That’s bad,” said Bodahn.

“ _’I thought I saw him the other day in the market, but it turned out to be an exceptionally large pineapple_.’” Marethari frowned. “’ _He made a delicious fruit salad.’”_

“That’s even worse,” said Orana, with a pitying shake of her head.

“At least she didn’t let it go to waste,” replied Sebastian. “There’s no sin against the Maker greater than the waste of fresh fruit.”

Shaking her head sadly, Marethari placed the letter in her front pocket. “This is absurd. It’s been months now.”

“And it’ll be months yet,” said Bodahn kindly. “Give her time. You’ll see. Soon she’ll meet someone else, a nice baron perhaps, and I guarantee you, Garrett will be forgotten like last year’s skinned knee.”

“A _baron_?” Marethari shuddered. “Creators forbid.”

She left the kitchen to retrieve Carver’s car. He preferred the Fereldan Town Car, a spacious yet sensible ride with more than enough room to comfortably accommodate his long legs, his briefcase and his umbrella. A fine choice of vehicle, she’d always thought, and indicative of the quality of character that had made Carver the ideal choice to inherit the top position at Hawke Industries.

She pulled the car around, and as usual, Carver did not make her wait long.

“Good morning, Marethari,” he said, walking down the stairs with briefcase and umbrella in hand, and the morning’s paper under his arm.

“Morning, messere,” she replied. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Carver squinted up at the sun as if he hadn’t seen it.

“You’re right,” he said. “Take the parkway then.”

“Yes, messere,” said Marethari. Indeed, she liked Master Carver immensely. His sense of industry, his sense of propriety, his _sense_. Carver knew his place, and hers. It was a good arrangement for all involved. There would never be any mistaking _him_ for a pineapple!

Carver was about to enter the car when down the drive came a sharp squeal of tires. It was Garrett, of course, screeching toward the house in his Dragon Coupe, with the top down and the radio at full blast. He slammed on the brakes, stopping mere inches from the Town Car’s back bumper.

With a grand leap Marethari half-expected to end in a somersault, Garrett hopped out of the car. His passenger, Anders, was more discreet, opening the door and shutting it with a quiet click. Marethari noted that they were both still wearing the same suits from last night—and if she noticed, then surely Carver did as well.

“Morning, Carver,” said Garrett with a jaunty grin. He slapped his brother’s shoulder, which drew Carver’s furrowed gaze away from Anders, who was presently trying to scurry toward the servant’s entrance without further notice. “Lovely morning, isn’t it? Where are you off to?”

“To Orlais,” said Carver sourly.

Garrett’s eyes popped exaggeratedly. “With Marethari? How modern of you.”

“To the office, brother,” snapped Carver. “Obviously.”

Garrett frowned. “The office? On Sunday?”

“Try Wednesday.”

“Wednesday?”

While Garrett checked his watch, Carver climbed into the car. And if he applied a little extra force to the door than was needed, Marethari made sure not to notice.

She took the parkway, as requested. Carver pushed a button, and a heavy-looking telephone rose from the seat cushion next to him. The telephone was the latest technology, imported all the way from Kal’Hirol, with a range of 36 miles and a channel devoted solely to Hawke Industries calls. It was one of only eight in the city. Six months ago Carver had had the machine installed in his brother’s seat, considering it a much better use of the space.

He picked up the phone and began to speak.

“This is KL2-0936. Give me Hightown 91099.” He waited. “Good morning, Mrs. Hendyr. How did the market open?  Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Good. Would you please take a memo? Good. Read: Inter-office memo from Carver Hawke to Garrett Hawke.”

Carver spoke evenly enough, but there was an unmistakable edge in his voice that only tended to surface when he spoke to his brother.

“This is to remind you that you are a senior partner of Hawke Industries. Our offices are located at 30 Herren Street, Merchants’ Guild, Hightown, Kirkwall, The Free Marches. Your office is on the 22nd floor. Our normal week is Monday through Friday. Our normal working day is 9 to 5. Should you find this inconvenient, you are free to retire under the Hawke Industries pension plan. Having been with us for six months since your return from the Deep Roads, this will entitle you to five coppers a month for the rest of your life. End memo. Yes, Mrs. Hendyr. Just leave it on his desk. Slip it inside a dirty magazine, he’ll be sure to read it then. I’m just leaving the house. You can put the coffee on in 15 minutes.” He hung up and picked up the newspaper, skimming the headlines briskly.

Marethari sighed. She shared her employer’s frustration. Creators, of all the men in Thedas, why did her daughter have to fall for Garrett? Was it because he had a beard? True, some elven girls were drawn to beards, and Elgar’nan knew she’d fancied a few herself. But that’s all it had been – a passing fancy, a phase. She had always known her place, and theirs: she was an elf and they were men. No matter how pretty men were, or how pretty their beards, there was generally not a single thought between their stunted ears.

Truly it was a pity that Carver was the only Amell with any sense. Why couldn’t Merrill have become infatuated with him instead? He’d at least have had the sense and kindness to turn her down quickly and neatly, as he was meant to. Then her daughter could go on with her life, as she was meant to. And Marethari could finally have some peace of mind, as _she_ was meant to.

“So,” said Carver casually, without lifting his eyes from the paper, “how’s your daughter, Marethari?”

“She still loves him,” she replied bitterly.

The paper fell to Carver’s lap. When Marethari looked at him in the rear-view mirror, she noticed one of his eyebrows had disappeared into his hair. “What now?”

Marethari had the sense to know when she’d said something unwelcome. “I mean, she loves the school,” she corrected.

Carver nodded, then picked the paper back up and frowned down at it grievously. The stocks must be down this morning indeed.

“She’ll get over it,” muttered Marethari, and it was the last thing either of them said all the way to Herren Street.

**Autumn**

“You will now demonstrate the Qun of soufflé,” said Arishok, one hand raised into a fist for more effective pontification. He walked down the row of students, who lined up at their workstations, their spines as straight as soldiers at muster.

There were considerably fewer of them now, only eight from the fourteen that had been at the start, though they’d picked up a Rivaini woman a few months back. Merrill supposed Arishok had believed she would be among the quitters by now. She supposed she had believed it too. Yet here she was, still at it, all these months later, though Merrill wasn’t sure whether it was stubbornness that kept her coming back, or just a lack of any other real options.

“The soufflé is a living thing,” continued Arishok. “It has a soul, an _asala_.” He laid one hand over his heart, and his eyes grew soft, distant. “It is like a butterfly aloft in the spring breeze—“

Arishok met Merrill’s eyes, and his hand dropped.

“Not all of you will understand,” he growled. “No matter. You do not need to understand. To the ovens!”

The students did as they were bidden and removed their pans. Arishok walked down the line, inspecting each.

“Too low,” he said. “Too pale. Too heavy. Too high. Too burnt. Fair. Sloppy.”

Arishok stopped at the Rivaini woman next to Merrill’s station. She was statuesque and lovely, with raven hair and eyes like copper coins. From the moment she’d sauntered through the door Merrill had thought she was the most beautiful woman she’d ever seen. Today she wore a finely tailored dress short enough to pass as a shirt, and boots that hugged the tops of her thighs.

Arishok leaned toward the Rivaini’s soufflé and waved his hand, wafting the aromas closer to his nose.

“Superb,” he said. “My dear Captain, it is as if you have stolen the Tome of Koslun itself and baked it into a dish.”

“If I did, you can be sure I wouldn’t stay here with it.”

They both shared a laugh.

“You alone are _basalit-_ an,” he said. Then he turned to regard the rest of the students. “This is what respect looks like,” he informed them, pointing at the Rivaini. “Some of you will never earn it.”

Arishok moved onto Merrill, and his smile evaporated as quickly as it had appeared. He peered into Merrill’s casserole dish, down, down, down to its depths where the egg mixture jiggled pitifully. He looked back at her.

“Fixing your mess is not a demand of the Qun,” he snarled. “And you should be grateful _._ ”

Arishok stormed back up to his desk, effectively dismissing class for the day. Merrill lingered behind, frowning so intently at her dish that she did not look up when the Captain sidled up next to her.

“I don’t know what happened,” said Merrill sadly.

“Well, generally it helps if you remember to turn on the oven,” said the Captain with a twinkle in her eye.

Merrill covered her face with her hands. “Oh no,” she moaned. She beat her fist against her forehead. “Stupid, _stupid._ ”

“Not stupid.” The Captain laid a gentle hand over Merrill’s fist. Her palm was warm and comforting. “Distracted.”

“No, I should know better,” said Merrill. “My father was the best cook in Kirkwall. Oh, I’ll never get this.”

“Daughters are not always meant to be as their fathers were,” said the Captain. “Sometimes they have the temerity to be their own person.”

Her words didn’t exactly make Merrill feel better, but it was nice to have a person to talk to and a warm hand to hold. It felt like a very long time since she’d had either.

“I’ve had my eye on you for quite some time, kitten,” she continued. “Your mind hasn’t been on the Qun, has it?”

When she said _the Qun_ , she did so in a deep, grumpy voice that sounded so much like their instructor that Merrill couldn’t help but chuckle. “No, I suppose not,” she said.

“You’re in love.” She eyed the soupy mess of Merrill’s soufflé. “And I’d wager it isn’t working out so well for you.”

Merrill sighed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Very,” said the Captain. “A woman’s mind is always between the bedsheets. If she’s satisfied, she forgets her soufflé in her bliss and burns it. If she’s not regularly turned on, however, she tends to repay the favor on her appliances.”

“I don’t quite get it,” said Merrill. “But it certainly sounds exciting enough.”

“Exactly,” said the Captain, tweaking Merrill’s nose.

“But I am trying to get over him,” Merrill insisted, wishing she could dispel the pitiful whine that had crept into her voice.

“Why? You speak of love as if it were an inconvenient rash.”

That made Merrill smile faintly. “Because he doesn’t even know I exist,” she said. “I might as well be reaching for the moon.”

“The moon?” The Captain laughed from deep within her belly. “Oh, you elves. You’re so old-fashioned. Haven’t you heard? In Orlais, we’re building lyrium rockets to reach the moon.”

In Merrill’s heart, something small and bright flickered to life. She decided she liked the Captain, quite a bit.  “Maybe,” she said, “maybe you’re right.”

“You’re overthinking this, kitten. Cooking is just like sex. And today’s your lucky day, because I am going to help you get better at both.”

Merrill cocked her head. “Both?”

The Captain grinned.

“Trust me, Kitten,” she said, slinging an arm around Merrill’s shoulders. “I’m a Captain.”


	4. The Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Amell servants gossip about Merrill's new friend, Garrett gets some terrible news, and Carver does what's best for everyone.

**Winter**  
  


That morning Marethari had had another letter from Merrill, and within fifteen minutes of its arrival all the servants had gathered in the drive to hear the latest from Val Royeaux.

 _“’I’ve befriended a Captain – or, should I say, the Captain has befriended me,’_ ” Marethari read, leaning but not sitting on the back bumper of the Ferelden Town Car. She furrowed her brow. “A Captain?”

“That’s nice,” said Sebastian. “Does she mention Garrett?”

 _“Garrett?”_ Bodahn laughed. “What’s our girl need with him? She’s got a Captain now!”

“ ** _Her_** _name is Isabela_ ,” read Marethari in a pointed tone.

“Pish-posh,” said Bodahn. He waved his hand as if swatting a fly. “She’s in _Orlais_. It’d be practically fashionable there.”

“But we elves are few enough as is,” Marethari replied. Though, truth be told, it wasn’t as if she’d mind anyone, man or woman, who might lure her daughter’s eye away from Garrett Hawke. But a Captain? Trading one impossibility for another hardly seemed like any luck at all.

She pursed her lips and continued to read.

_“’’The Captain is very sweet, and very kind. She has her own racing yacht, a private dock, marvelous antique books, and an apartment right above the city’s trendiest bistro. She wears the tallest boots I’ve ever seen, with buckles that go all the way up to her knees. I once asked her why she needed so many, and she told me, ‘Because buckles deserve better than boring old belts.’ How extraordinary!”_

Sebastian and Bodahn’s eyes both lit up in glee, but Orana merely shrugged. “And how exactly does such a fancy Captain take notice of Merrill?”

“Who wouldn’t notice her?” said Sebastian. “It was only ever Garrett that was the dunce.”

“But it’s all rather convenient, isn’t it? An Orlesian Captain, taking an interest in our girl.” Orana frowned. “Whatever would an officer of the Imperial Navy need with her, besides a servant she didn’t have to pay?”

Bodahn rolled his eyes. “You and your obsession with ranks. Don’t be such a slave to tradition, my dear.”

“I’m only saying that Merrill wouldn’t be the first elf to be blinded by a fancy title,” she replied, “or to be taken advantage of by those above her.”

Marethari nodded her agreement, but Bodahn made a tart face.

“Times are changing,” he said. “It isn’t how it was when we were her age. Now an elf or a dwarf can get ahead in the world,” he smiled at Marethari as charmingly as a courtier, “and a chauffeur’s daughter can marry a captain.”

“Of course they can,” said Orana. “But _should_ they? Bodahn, dear, don’t be silly. How can there be any happiness to such a match?”

“What happiness is there to _any_ match,” interjected Sebastian, “but that which we ourselves bring into it?”

It was a wise answer. Marethari was displeased by it and by him in a way that she couldn’t quite put her finger on. She swallowed the sourness on her tongue and kept reading.

_“’Tomorrow night the Captain is taking me to see the latest opera from Tevinter, **Ikarus: A Love Story** , starring Maevaris, the Rose of Minrathous. Afterward we shall attend a very fashionable masquerade ball, and I have an evening dress just for the occasion. If only Garrett could see me in it! Yards of skirt and way off the shoulders—‘“_

And who should come down the drive just then but Garrett! He seemed in an unusually foul humor, however: his pace was brisk, his shoulders hunched, his fist crumpling the morning’s newspaper. As he scurried toward the garage, Bodahn shushed Marethari, and all the servants stood and removed their hats and wished him a very good morning.

Garrett stopped, puzzled. He looked from Bodahn to Sebastian to Marethari. “What’s going on here?”

“There’s been a letter from Merrill, messere,” said Bodahn.

“Oh,” said Garrett. He resumed walking.

“But wouldn’t you like to read it, Master Garrett?” said Sebastian. He discreetly winked at Marethari, who scowled in response. “After all, there’s something about _you_ in it.”

Everyone knew Garrett could never resist gossip on his account, yet he kept on walking as if he hadn’t even heard Sebastian. Into the garage he strode, hopping into his Dragon Coupe and tossing the newspaper onto the passenger seat. Then he drove off, tires squealing the entire way.

“I wonder what’s troubling him?” said Bodahn.

“He’s getting married again, that’s what,” said Orana.

All the servants turned to her in shock. Marethari was the first to regain her voice. “But that can’t be.”

“Well it is. Number four,” Orana said.

“Says who?” asked Sebastian.

“Says Varric Tethras,” she replied, removing the morning’s paper from under her arm and pointing to Tethras’s very widely-read society column, _Hard in Hightown_. “Don’t you ever read the news?”

Sebastian yanked the paper out of Orana’s hands and frowned down at it.

“Oh dear,” said Bodahn. “But I thought he was done with marriage, ever since—you know,” he dropped his voice, “that business in the Deep Roads.”

None of them knew what that business in the Deep Roads was, exactly, other than that it was very grave indeed. Only Anders had any idea, for he’d been the only servant to accompany Garrett on the trip, but he wasn’t talking either. All anyone knew was that when Garrett had finally returned home after three weeks abroad, pale and haggard and frighteningly sober, he immediately announced his dual retirement from the Wallop leagues and the institution of marriage--for good.

“I suppose he changed his mind,” offered Orana unconvincingly.

“Or perhaps someone changed it for him,” said Marethari, her gaze drifting to the Fereldan Town Car beside her.

“What a disaster,” said Sebastian. “Poor Merrill. Poor Garrett.”

“Poor _Anders_ ,” muttered Bodahn.

They all nodded sadly except for Marethari, who in her heart felt about the news the same sort of dull satisfaction one gets from finishing a book one already knows the ending to. Of course she pitied the poor boy: Anders might have been a Marxist, but he wasn’t a bad sort, only a little naïve.  As polite and kind as he’d always been to her and Merrill, Anders had from the very start been unwilling to respect the fundamental boundaries between employer and employed—boundaries that existed to protect both parties. So Marethari had regarded Anders’s friendship with the elder Amell with more sadness than suspicion, for she always knew his heart was going to be broken eventually. He was in the Amells’ employ, after all. He wasn’t allowed to have a heart to break.

***

Garrett squealed his car to a stop in the only open parking spot in Hightown. It was right in front of 30 Herren Street, of course, for traffic wouldn’t dare prevent an Amell from parking wherever he found it most convenient. Without locking his car or even putting the top up, Garrett dashed out of the Coupe and into the high rise before him.

The Estate, as the tower was commonly known, soared 22 stories high, well into the clouds even on the sunniest days. As was the usual Amell style, the Estate was the largest and most impressively architected tower for many blocks around, and inside were the offices of many businesses, including Hawke Industries Ltd., Hawke Bone Pit Mining Co., Hawke Tool & Machining Co., Hawke Southern Drakestone Co., Hawke Fertilizer Corp., Hawke Southern Shipping Co., and the Bethany Hawke Foundation.

Like his father before him, Garrett hated the Estate. It was cool and austere, and it had an off-putting odor, like hair oil and spilled ink. He only ever came here in an emergency—which it now was.

With uncustomary briskness, Garrett did not acknowledge the doorman or anybody else as he made his way into the building, up the elevator, and through the secretarial pool he liked to call “the guardswomen”.

Instead Garrett made a beeline to a large desk, which was angled before the boardroom doors like a customs gate. Behind it sat stern-faced Mrs. Hendyr, who was currently reviewing a heavy-looking stack of contracts.

“Is he in?” said Garrett. “Is my brother in?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Hendyr returned to her papers.

Garrett tapped the newspaper on her desk. “I want to see him.”

With a dour look, Mrs. Hendyr dropped her papers and, with excruciating slowness, extricated her schedule book from under Garrett’s newspaper. “How about,” she peered at the planner, “3:30 this afternoon?”

“I want to see him _now,_ ” he snapped.

Mrs. Hendyr narrowed her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mister Garrett, but I have my orders.”

“Mrs. Hendyr,” Garrett circled the desk so he could stare down his nose at her, “are you going to press that button? Or am I going to have to pick you up and use you as a battering ram?”

The secretary stood. She towered over Garrett, as fearsome and immovable as a bulwark. Through the straining silk of her blouse, he could see the curve of well-formed biceps.

“I’d like to see you try,” she said in a low voice.

But Garrett refused to be cowed.  “Maker’s balls,” he cried. “Push the damn button, Aveline!”

The volume of his voice drew the glare of several nearby guardswomen. That was Garrett’s intent, for Mrs. Hendyr was a proud sort and unable to back down from a direct command from a man who was her boss, if only technically.

Scowling, Mrs. Hendyr jabbed the door lock button as if it were a dagger she was stabbing through Garrett’s heart.  Swallowing his regrets – normally Garrett rather liked Mrs. Hendyr – he strode into the boardroom without another word.

“Carver,” he said. “We have to talk.”

At the boardroom table, six ancient dwarf heads swiveled about to face the intruder. At the head of the table, Carver sighed deeply. He took off his reading glasses and raised a hand to his temple.

“Mrs. Hendyr will set up--” he began.

“Don’t you dare with that appointment business,” said Garrett, stalking over to the conference table. “I’m your brother. We talk now.”

“Alright, gentlemen, give us—“ Carver looked Garrett up and down as if appraising a watch, “—ten minutes.”

The dwarves rose and filed out of the room. Carver, however, did not rise from his seat.

“What’s your trouble this time?” he said.

Garrett waved the newspaper in the air like a sword. “How did _this_ get in the paper?”

“You’ll have to be more specific. There are many things in the paper,” said Carver without meeting his brother’s eyes. He got up from the table and walked over to his desk. “That’s rather the point of it.”

 _“’It looks like wedding bells again for Garrett Hawke,_ ’” read Garrett, trailing behind his brother. _“’The lucky girl is Flora Harimann, of the Kirkwall Harimanns.’”_

“Congratulations,” Carver offered gamely.

Garrett couldn’t believe his eyes: The obnoxious tit was actually trying to hide a smirk. He slapped the newspaper on the table. “Did _you_ plant this?”

“Me?” Carver leaned forward and took a long, slow sip from the coffee cup before him. “Isn’t it common knowledge about you and Flora? According to Serrah Tethras, you’ve been _Hard in Hightown_ for weeks.”

“Don’t play dumb, Carver,” Garrett slammed his palms on the table, “or so help me, I will deck you.”

“What’s the problem?” While talking, Carver discreetly pushed a button, and the top drawer of his desk opened. From it, he removed a small pistol.  “You like her, don’t you?”

“I like her well enough,” said Garrett, eyeing the gun.

“And?”

“I like a lot of girls well enough,” he snapped.

“You sure do,” said Carver lightly. He picked up the gun and walked to Garrett’s side.  “And now we’re going to put it to good use.”

Garrett glared at Carver, then down at the gun. “I won’t marry her at gunpoint, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Ignoring his brother, Carver lifted the pistol and shot three quick rounds across the room at a small drum, into which had been placed a transparent sheet of glass-like material.

“Are you insane?” shouted Garrett, cupping his hands over his ears. “You can’t shoot that in here.”

Carver shrugged. “Oops.”

He walked over to the drum and slid out the sheet.  “Would you look at that?” he marveled. “Not a scratch on it. Strong stuff, huh? Hmm, I wonder how this might fare against a bazooka.” Still holding the sheet, he walked over to his desk and pressed the telecom. “Mrs. Hendyr, call General Stannard on Gallows Island and ask if we could borrow a bazooka.”

“Yes, Mister Hawke,” came the tinny voice on the other end.

Blood roared in Garrett’s ears. “Can we get back to my problem now?”

“Yes, Garrett, I know: You, then everything else. I haven’t forgotten,” replied Carver evenly. “Lend me your lighter.”

Too distracted by the disinterest in his brother’s voice to protest, Garrett dug out the zippo from his front pocket. It was a small silver thing that Anders had given him a few months back on the anniversary of their return from The Deep Roads. He never went anywhere without it.

“Get this straight, Carver,” said Garrett, slapping the lighter into his brother’s hand. “I have no intention of ever marrying Flora Harimann.”

But Carver didn’t seem bothered by Garrett’s proclamation. Instead he lit the lighter and lifted it under the sheet. “See? It doesn’t burn. It doesn’t scorch. It doesn’t even melt,” he said. “How about that?”

“You’re not listening, Carver. I’ve been married—three times. You were even at a couple of them.” He shook his head firmly. “No, I’m done making that mistake.”

“Ah, but you’re the one who’s not listening,” said Carver. He jabbed the sheet toward Garrett’s face. “So listen.”

“What?”

“Just listen.”

Garrett folded his arms in angry silence. Then he cocked his head. “Is that—music? Singing?”

“Exactly! This sheet’s made of lyrium alloy.” Carver handed the lighter back to Garrett and walking back to the drum. “It’s our latest prototype. Just as strong as the pure stuff, but safe enough for even a baby to handle.”

“Well done, I suppose. But lyrium’s your business, not mine.” Then Garrett froze. “Wait, this doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that the Harimanns own the largest lyrium mines outside Orzammar, does it?”

“Second largest,” said Carver, sliding the film back into the drum. “The largest have no daughter.”

“Now it all makes sense.” Garrett folded his hands behind his back. “Lord Harimann owns the lyrium, you own the formula for the alloy, and I—well, I’m your Warden up for the sacrifice, aren’t I?”

“Certainly that’s the most dramatic way of putting it,” agreed Carver. “But surely you don’t object to Flora just because her family happens to own a lyrium mine? That’s very narrow-minded of you, Garrett, and, considering our family’s business at the Bone Pit, hypocritical too.”

“Got it all figured out, haven’t you?” Garrett scowled. “Except there’s just one thing – I haven’t proposed. And she hasn’t accepted.”

“No matter,” said Carver. “I proposed, and Lord Harimann accepted.”

Garrett clenched his hands into fists. “And they say human trafficking is illegal.”

“Come now, Garrett. Flora is one of the loveliest women in Kirkwall.” Carver sat at his desk, entirely at ease. “We both know that sooner or later you would’ve proposed to her anyway.”

“You don’t know anything,” snapped Garrett. “Least of all about women.”

“Lucky for me then that I’m not the one getting married,” he said with a wicked grin.

Garrett closed his eyes and counted to ten. Then again, this time backwards. “If you need this deal to go through so much, then why don’t _you_ marry her?”

“Me?” Carver chuckled. He briskly walked across the room to stand before the full-length window. Garrett could see no immediate reason for Carver to put so much distance between them, other than that perhaps his brother could tell how close he was to eating a knuckle sandwich. “Not a chance. You have a noble duty, Garrett, and it’s time to accept it.”

“Don’t give me that wyvern crap.” Garrett folded his arms. “You want to die as lonely and dried up as a Chantry brother?”

For a long moment, Carver didn’t answer; instead he just stared out the windows to the city below.  

“We all have our roles to play in carrying on the Amell line,” he said eventually. “Yours is to marry, make babies, to die fat and happy someplace warm. Mine is here, carrying on Grandfather’s work.” Sighing, he then turned and sat himself on the boardroom table as easily and comfortably as if it were an Antivan settee. He gestured to the boardroom around him. “This. This is my home, Garrett. No wife would ever understand it.”

“Well, neither can I,” said Garrett, walking over to the window his brother had just abandoned. The cars below darted to and fro like ants at a picnic. Briefly he wondered what it might be like to dash himself through the glass and soar down the twenty-two floors to the pavement.  “Why do any of this? We’ve already got all the money in the world.”

Carver frowned. “What’s money got to do with it?”

“Is power your goal then?”

Carver waved his hands at his brother, as if the idea itself gave off an offensive stench. “Let the dwarves fight over that. I don’t need it.”

“Then why? What will going into lyrium prove?” Garrett thought about putting a hand on his brother’s shoulder, but ultimately his anger got the better of him, and he left his hand where it was. “You know you don’t have anything to prove to me, little brother.”

“Prove?” Carver looked down at his hands, which lay limp in his lap like massive, scarred paperweights. “Nothing much, I suppose. We make a new product, something of use to the world. Factories go up. Machines are brought in. Boats. Foundries. Suddenly you have a whole new industry. And it’s purely coincidental, of course, that Darktowners who never saw a dime before suddenly have a dollar, that now barefooted refugee kids have shoes and their teeth fixed and their faces washed.”

“Truly, saving the world is a full-time job,” snapped Garrett, suddenly feeling very cross.  

Carver’s hands twitched in his lap. “What’s wrong with wanting to give a Fereldan a job? More than that—libraries, hospitals, wallop pitches, movies on a Saturday night? What’s wrong with wanting to make the world a better place for our kinsmen? Have you forgotten where you came from, brother?”

“Not with you around to remind me,” muttered Garrett.

Carver didn’t take the bait. Instead, he returned his gaze to city outside the window. In profile, he looked very much like Bethany, and the likeness made Garrett’s heart seize, even so many years later.

“I only want what’s best for everyone,” Carver said quietly. In the window his faint reflection stared back at him like a ghost.

Garrett couldn’t bear to look at his brother looking like that any longer, so he turned to toying with the lighter still in his hand instead.

Years ago, before they’d come to Kirkwall, Carver had joined the army, just months in advance of the Fifth Continental War. Garrett had remained at home, of course, doing his duty as the eldest son and watching over his mother and sister at the Lothering townhome. Garrett had never asked why Carver had enlisted, or what had happened during his service, and Carver had never offered to tell. That just wasn’t the way their relationship was. But he knew Carver’s time on the front had changed his little brother forever, and in a way, it had changed Garrett too.

Sometimes Garrett wondered if his brother weren’t still trying to make up for something that happened all those years ago, or either run from it instead – and whether he himself were doing the same.

They all had their roles to play in the end, didn’t they?

“I suppose,” said Garrett eventually, turning Anders’s lighter over and over in his palm, “if it’s for the children, that is – I suppose I’ll have to think about an engagement further.”

Carver nodded solemnly. Then he walked over to his desk and pressed the telecom. “Mrs. Hendyr,” he said, “would you please send in the secretaries?”

“Yes, Mister Hawke,” said Mrs. Hendyr.

Carver walked over to two ottomans in the corner of the room and gestured for Garrett to follow. Between the cushions had been placed a board of the same transparent lyrium alloy that had been set into the drum.

“Look at this stuff,” he said. “You can ride in car made of it. You can wear a suit of armor made of it. And before we’re through, you’ll probably be able to eat it.” Carver set his hands on his hips in triumph, as if the board were a dragon he’d personally slain. “We’re incorporating Hawke Lyrium now. Hawke Tool and Mining is ready with the blueprints. Hawke Shipping has bought nine more freighters to handle all the traffic to Amaranthine.”

Garrett looked up sharply. “So the wheels are in motion already?”

Carver nodded. “It’s only when you fall that you know whether you can fly.”

Mrs. Hendyr strode in, followed by all nine of the guardswomen. Carver smiled at them. “Would you mind demonstrating the weight test for Mister Garrett, please?”

All ten women stepped on the beam. It barely bent. Then Carver shoved Garrett up along with them. “Up you go,” he said with a smug smile.

“Now wait a minute—“

“I want you to see its resilience firsthand,” he said, not dropping his brother’s arm until he was fully on the plank. Garrett’s mouth went dry. HIs heart began to race. “Bounce please, ladies.”

The women proceeded to hop in place. The plank bent grievously but did not snap. The secretaries smiled to one another as if this were a hilarious private joke, but Garrett clutched Mrs. Hendyr’s arm and thought he might throw up.  

“Some alloy, eh?” Carver’s eyes sparkled. “We’re planning on a summer wedding so we can get in on this year’s mining shipments.”

“Right,” said Garrett. Swallowing hard, he shoved away Mrs. Hendyr’s arm and hurled himself off the plank. When he hit the floor he nearly collapsed to his knees, and he did not move for many heartbeats, struggling to regain his breath, to remember where he was. “Right.”

“I think you’re going to be very happy,” said Carver.

“I suppose I will,” gasped Garrett.

In his clenched fist, the lighter felt as heavy and hot as an accusation.


	5. The Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill says goodbye to Val Royeaux. Garrett drives home a beautiful and dangerously fascinating stranger. Carver hates his life, as usual.

**One Year Later**

Merrill tried very, very hard not to scratch her new vallaslin, but oh—how they stung! They were like terrible sunburns, all raw and hot and peeling, a made all the worse by the constant itching, as if little spiders were crawling to and fro beneath her skin. While she had no regrets, of course, she still wished she’d known beforehand that the healing would be worse than the actual tattooing.

Merrill gritted her teeth and refocused her thoughts on the letter before her.  

> _Dearest Mother,_
> 
> _Next week, I shall graduate. First in the class! How far I have come. I like to think Papa would be very proud of me indeed._
> 
> _I want to thank you again for the two most wonderful years of my life. I shall always love you for sending me here._

Through the open window stirred a warm breeze, which carried the serenade of a lute player at the bistro downstairs. Merrill smiled, her itching temporarily forgotten, and walked over to the window. She opened it up wide and let the music in. 

In the bed across the room, the Captain snored softly, as if in competition with the lute. Merrill smiled fondly. Then she sat down at the desk and continued to write.

> _It is late at night, and outside someone is playing “Je Ne Vous Appelle Pas Un Menteur.”* It is the Orlesian way of saying, “I am seized with love of the world,” and it says everything I feel._
> 
> _I have learned so many things here, Mother. Not just how to make Starkhaven torte or nug’s head with sauce vinaigrette, but a much more important recipe—I have learned how to live: how to be in the world and of the world, and not just to stand aside and watch. And I will never again run away from life—or from love either._

With more emphasis than perhaps necessary, Merrill dotted the final period. Behind her there was a rustling, and a muzzy voice said, “Come to bed, kitten.”

“In a moment,” Merrill replied, her jaw set. 

> _I’m taking the plane home next Friday. You needn’t pick me up at the airport; I’ll take the Hightown Express, and you can meet me at the platform. If you have any difficulty recognizing your daughter, I shall be the most sophisticated woman at the Old City Station._

Grinning, Merrill sealed the letter for tomorrow’s post. Then she drifted over to the bed and removed her dressing gown. The night air was as pleasant as silk against her bare skin.

“You haven’t scratched, have you?” said the lump of sheets that was the Captain.

“I haven’t,” murmured Merrill, snuggling under the sheets.

“Good. You’ll only irritate them.” The Captain rolled over, and warm, copper eyes met Merrill’s. “They look lovely on you.”

Merrill smirked softly. “They do, don’t they?”

Outside the lute player plucked out the final notes of his song, and seized with affection, Merrill snaked a hand around the Captain’s waist. Life with the Captain had been a whirlwind of parties and escapades, of laughter and starlight, of wine and song.  But like dreams, all songs had come to an end eventually. Such was what made them all the sweeter while they lasted, Merrill suddenly realized.

Drowsily, the Captain lifted her hand and tucked a strand of hair behind Merrill’s ear. “No regrets, right, kitten?”  

“None whatsoever,” Merrill agreed. She buried herself in one last warm embrace.

_***_

It was a perfect day for a drive. The sky was clear; the sun shone bright but not too hot. Warm wind ruffled Garrett’s hair, carrying the scent of freshly bloomed trees and, underneath that, a hint of the ocean beyond. The world was alive, awake, content. 

Garrett was miserable. For in two weeks he’d be married, and then he’d never be free again.

When he’d agreed to marry Flora, Garrett had never considered that he’d actually have to follow through with it. He’d simply assumed that, once the formalities had been taken care of, Carver and Lord Harimann would then sign the necessary papers, and he and Flora could go their separate ways, no hard feelings all around.

But Lord Harimann was being remarkably stubborn about the whole affair. It seemed every week he came up with a new reason to delay signing the contracts, until it had become crystal clear that the man planned to be as coy as a bride himself, waiting until after the nuptials to commit his lyrium in full.

It was all rather selfish, thought Garrett, and he’d done his best to force Lord Harimann’s hand by delaying the wedding for as long as he could. But he’d finally run out of excuses, and the Harimanns had run out of patience. There was no more putting off the inevitable.

So here he was: driving around on a perfectly lovely day, having a proper sulk about things for as long as he was able, before his meeting with the florist to discuss tablescapes, whatever those were.

Beside him, the passenger’s seat felt large and empty. Anders hadn’t said more than ten words to him in several weeks. Too busy with wedding preparations, he’d offered as his only apology, and the bastard hadn’t even had the decency to sound all that upset about it. Sometimes the Deep Roads felt so far away for Garrett that it’d never happened, and that was a very lonely thought indeed. 

He ground his teeth. Of all the freedoms to lose, Anders was by far the one he would feel the keenest.

A flash of white caught Garrett’s attention as he drove near the train station. It was a woman, pacing back and forth outside the empty building, her luggage in a neat stack beside her. At her heel was a miniature mabari, the kind that had become all the rage in Orlais that past season. She appeared to be waiting for someone who hadn’t yet come—a knight on a white steed, perhaps.

For the first time in several months, Garrett felt a shiver run up his spine. Despite his and Anders’s– _arrangement_ – it wasn’t that Garrett had ever _stopped_ finding women attractive. And truth be told, he’d relished his part in keeping up appearances ever since the Deep Roads, though perhaps the girls themselves had become tiresome and forgettable. But with the impending wedding, he’d been forced to quit his nightly conquests in the name of boardroom harmony—and he’d felt the lack of regular release rather sorely.

His brother had been right: Flora _was_ a lovely girl. And Garrett hated her for it.

In a fit of pique, Garrett slammed on the brakes. He threw the car in reverse and skidded to a stop right in front of the train station.

“Ferry, miss?” he said. “The cheapest fare in Kirkwall.”

The woman regarded him with obvious delight. From this distance, he could see that she was an elf—a rather striking one too, with bright green eyes and a delicate nose. Across her cheeks scrolled the tattoos common to their people—what were they called, Vaseline?—though she was dressed in the finest Orlesian style, a tailored sheath dress that revealed slim but lovely hips and shapely calves. Her hair was bound up in an Orlesian cowl, the sort that looked ridiculous on most people, but somehow she made it work. She was young and fresh and smacked of high breeding. 

A high-born elf from Orlais? How scandalous. How _irresistible_.

And here she was, beaming at him, as if he were the knight she’d been waiting for all along. It was all far too much for a man like Garrett to endure.

“Why, hello! And how are you?” she said cheerfully.

She spoke as if they’d been friends for years, though that was typical of Orlesians. Still, she did seem faintly familiar somehow, and Garrett wondered if he’d perhaps met her at a party somewhere back in his tour in the Wallop Leagues. “I’m fine. How are you? And I might add— _who_ are you?”

Her brows twitched. “Who am _I_?”

“Should I already know?”

It had been the correct response apparently, because she grinned all the harder, and the sight made his heart skitter in his chest as if he’d drunk too much coffee. “No,” she said. “I should think not.”

“Are you stranded here?”

“My mother was supposed to pick me up, but something must have happened.”

“How lucky for me then. That is, if I can give you a lift to safety.” He flashed his most winning, dazzling smile. He hadn’t had much chance to use it lately, as Flora was already snared and Anders hated the look of it.

“I’m hardly in danger with you, am I?” she said with a knowing smile.

Garrett paused. That wasn’t quite the response he expected. “I-I suppose not?”

“Good, then it’s settled. You’ll drive me home.” It was a bold statement, especially from an elf, and she looked at him without any hint of shyness or coyness to soften its blow. He decided right then that he liked her immensely.

“Good, good. I’ll—uh, I’ll get your bags.” He hopped out of the car in what he knew was a dramatic and terribly handsome fashion. Women usually tittered to themselves when he did that. She, however, didn’t seem to think he’d done anything even particularly interesting. What a fascinating woman she was. He picked up her valise and popped it onto his luggage carriage. “Where do you live?”

“Barlin Lane.”

“But that’s where I live,” he exclaimed.

“Really,” she said without sounding the least bit surprised. Then she turned and made a kissing noise. The little mabari ambled toward her on stubby legs. She cooed, “Come on, Garrett.”

“Garrett?” He opened the door for her, and with a broad smile she slid in, her eyes fixed on the pup in her lap. As she sat, she was very mindful of the leather. “Is _his_ name Garrett?”

“Yes it is.”

“That’s funny.” He leaned in over her shoulder as he closed the door. She smelled like Orlesian rose water and something else, something strangely familiar. “My name’s Garrett too.”

She buried her nose in the mabari’s fur and scratched him behind the ear. “That _is_ funny, isn’t it?”

***

They drove for some time, exchanging the usual pleasantries. It was odd to look over and see a woman in the seat next to him, instead of his usual passenger. Odd—but not unwelcome, for she was a stunning creature, truly magnificent in all her various curves and angles. Yet the idea that he knew her from somewhere nagged at Garrett.

“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me your name?” he said.

“Positive,” she replied, as if she were telling the funniest joke. “I’m having far too much fun.”

Garrett liked jokes too, but usually he preferred to be the one telling them, rather than starring in them. “Fine, if you want to play games. Have you always lived in Hightown?”

“Not always. I came here as a girl.”

“I could’ve sworn I knew every pretty lady on the Southern shore,” he said with a charming smile in her direction.

Unfazed, she smirked back. “I could’ve sworn you took in more territory than that.”

His smile dissolved. Yes, this was very unsettling indeed. “This is maddening. I know I’ve seen you before. Let me see your profile again.”

She turned her head toward the road, her chin lifted high, her nose regal. It was the queenly profile of a woman who didn’t take no for an answer.

He shook his head in frustration. “I feel as if I’ve seen you about with your mother.”

For the first time since he’d met her, there was a crack in her smile. Was there some tension between them, perhaps? Garrett tried to think of the most unpleasant woman he knew. “Is your mother General Stannard, perhaps?”

“Hardly,” she laughed, her shoulders relaxing.

“Strange,” he muttered. “I keep picturing her in uniform.”

The woman smiled down at the mabari and did not answer. One of her gloved hands fell along the seat, and she brushed the tips of her fingers along it, as if the leather were precious. It was a curious gesture, one that Garrett did not quite get the meaning to. It made his blood boil all the more, for the only thing he loved more than conquest was mystery. 

“Come on, give us a hint,” he said. “What does your family do?”

“We’re in transportation,” she said, eyes still on the seat. 

“Transportation, hmm.” He thought for a moment. “Railroads? Free Marches Central.”

“No.”

“Planes, then. Thedas Air.”

“No.”

“Boats. Par Vollen Marine.”

She giggled. “Not likely.”

“Take pity on me, my dear lady.”

The appellation made her blush slightly. “Automobiles,” she conceded.

“Oh?” He thought he’d gotten to know everyone in the local automobile industry. He’d certainly spoken to enough of them when acquiring the parts to restore the Rambler. “I bet my brother Carver knows her then.”

Her smile took on a worryingly fond glint. “He certainly does. As a matter of fact, they quite often drive into town together.”

“They do?” Garrett hummed thoughtfully as he turned onto Barlin Street. Perhaps this was the true reason his brother was a confirmed bachelor—if this woman’s mother was half as beautiful as her daughter, then Garrett would wake up every day before dawn just to go into the office too.

“Straight through to the garage please,” she said, offering him a bright grin that was impossible for him not to match with his own.

“I feel so stupid I could kill myself,” he laughed.

She nuzzled the puppy. “You’ll be alright in a minute.”

He pulled up the drive and parked right before the garage.

“Here we are,” she cried.

“Now look, I’m not just pulling the old line, ‘Haven’t we met somewhere before?’ We _have_ met—“ He stopped short, realizing for the first time which drive he’d pulled into. “But you can’t live here.”

“Yes I do.”

“But _I_ live here,” he said.

“Hi neighbor,” she said with a jaunty grin.

She then leaned over and honked the horn several times. From the servants’ entrance there came a crush of people led by Bodahn, who threw his big arms wide. Darting out of the car, she ran to meet them, and she hugged each of them in turn. 

“Merrill!” cried Orana. “Welcome back!”

“Why, look at you,” said Sebastian, grinning ear to ear. “You’ve come home such a beautiful lady!”

“Merrill!” squealed Sandal, hurling himself at her waist.

Garrett stared at the display with his mouth hung open. Behind him, the miniature mabari climbed into his lap and whined. Picking him up, he opened the door and watched from a polite distance, and felt very foolish indeed.

“Oh Sandal, it’s so wonderful to see you too! How is Enchantment? Don’t cry, Orana. There’s nothing to cry about. I bought you a dress, Orana. A real Val Royeaux dress for you to wear to the Chantry and on Feastdays. And Sebastian, something for you—“

Her voice broke off as a car rumbled down the drive. It was Marethari in the old Fereldan Rambler.

“Mother!” squealed Merrill. She ran over to the car and embraced Marethari before the woman could even extract herself fully from the automobile.

Marethari held her daughter tight. “I’m sorry I missed you, _da’len_ ,” she said. “But I had to take Mistress Leandra to the hairdresser.”

“It doesn’t matter,” she cried, pulling Marethari back again for another hug. “It doesn’t matter!”

Marethari regarded her daughter with tears in her eyes.  “Oh my beautiful girl, I wouldn’t have recognized you anyway,” she said. With a trembling finger she traced the ink lines on her daughter’s cheek, then without saying anything more, pulled Merrill back into a hug. 

“Garrett had some trouble,” said the girl, casting him a wicked smile, “Didn’t you, Garrett?”

Marethari’s face hardened.  

“Yes,” said Garrett, scratching the mabari pup. “Yes I did.”

At the sound of his voice, the servants seemed to come back to themselves, and the mass of them began to meander back into the house. “I’ll put some coffee on,” said Sebastian. “Will you come to the kitchen, Merrill?”

“As soon as I’ve opened my bags,” she replied.

“Let’s get them out of the car. I’ll take them upstairs,” said Marethari, casting a wary glance at Garrett but leaving him alone with Merrill all the same.

He handed the squirming mabari back to Merrill, and she kept her gaze on his, her eyes sparkling with amusement. His embarrassment melted into something liquid and fierce deep in his belly.

He ought to walk away right now. From her, from the situation, from this—this— _feeling._  But how could he, when she was looking at him with such hungry eyes that pulled him in and refused to let go? 

_She’d named her dog after him._

“As old neighbors,” he began. His voice sounded thick and strange but he was unable to stop himself from speaking, “I think the two of us should have a proper reunion.”

“It is only neighborly,” she agreed.

“How about tonight?” His fingers danced nervously along his sleeve. _Walk away, Garrett. Walk away._

She paused, her eyes searching his face. “Do you _really_ want to see me?

“Very much,” he said, again flashing his most charming grin, but somehow it felt false now, too large, too open, too _everything_. He leaned a little closer to her, but the mabari squirmed into his way.

“Are you sure?”

 _No._ “Yes, I’m sure.”

She grinned widely and hugged the mabari to her chest, where he snuggled in happily. “Alright then.”

Behind them Marethari loudly bumped the valises on her way up the iron staircase.

“Good,” said Garrett. “We’ll go out on the town. We’ll go somewhere for a quick drink, then have dinner somewhere historic. I know a wonderful little Orlesian restaurant over in the Old City.” He looked down at his hands, suddenly self-conscious. _Walk away, Garrett._ “I guess you wouldn’t think so much of it after Val Royeaux.”

“I’d love it!” she said, bouncing on her heels.

“Good. Then we’ll go out dancing some place. And once they throw us out of Hightown, we’ll just mosey on down to Lowtown. Do you like lute players?”

“Yes.”

“I know the greatest. He’s—“ Suddenly, the lighter in his pocket cut sharply into his hip. He stopped, blinked, and remembered himself. “Wait a minute, I completely forgot. We’re having a big party at the house here tonight.”

If possible her face lit up even more than before. “With an orchestra? And dancing?”

“Yes.”

“ _Elgar’nan!_ That would be even better!”

“Oh, I don’t know. Just a bunch of dull people drinking themselves silly,” he said. “Family stuff, you know.”

“I don’t mind, Garrett, as long as you’re there.”

Above the garage, the door to Merrill’s room banged open, the sound momentarily drawing both of their gazes. Marethari glared down at them, stern and frowning as always. “Merrill?”

“In a minute, Mother,” she called up. She turned back to Garrett. “I have a lovely evening dress, with yards of skirt and way off the shoulders. Shall I wear it?”

Garrett’s heart pounded. This was going all wrong. Flora would be there. Anders too. Flora! Anders. Flora. _Anders!_ “Why-why yes. Yes, of course.”

“Oh Garrett, it’s going to be marvelous. A homecoming party! I’ll get the dress out and press it right now.” She turned away, but her gaze lingered on his. “See you tonight.”

Garrett watched her saunter up the iron staircase. Halfway up, she turned back to him and cast him a quick smile. He swallowed. He was doomed.

“Hello, Carver,” she chirruped brightly. “I’m back!”

Garrett wheeled around. There was Carver, in his grey flannel suit, hooded eyes lingering on Merrill. He held the newspaper in his hand very loosely, and he looked small and young and very, very tired. How long had he been standing there? Had he heard their conversation about the dancing, the party, the dress?

Carver shot a dark look at Garrett. He’d been there long enough, it seemed. Garrett turned back around over to the Rambler and busied himself with some miniscule spot of mud along the car’s bumper. Carver walked over to him.

“It’s Merrill,” said Garrett, not meeting his brother’s gaze. He didn’t want Carver’s usual dourness to ruin this feeling for him. “Isn’t it amazing? Would you have recognized her? That scrawny little kid who used to hide whenever she saw us coming?” Carver was still hovering behind him, somewhere, and his unmet stare made Garrett want to keep talking. “Do you remember her then? Her hair in pigtails, ears sticking every which way, her knees always stained in motor oil?” He cast a wide, blissful smile at Merrill as she entered her apartment, and entirely missed how Carver’s hands clenched around his newspaper. “How do you like those legs now?”

“Garrett,” said Carver in a flat voice.

“Aren’t they really something?”

“Garrett,” repeated Carver, his voice now sharp as a sword.

Garrett looked at him.

“The last pair of legs that were ‘really something’ cost the family 25,000 sovereigns,” he reminded him.

Garrett frowned at his brother. “Just because you live like a monk doesn’t mean I ought to.”

“A little chastity wouldn’t hurt,” snapped Carver. “At least until after the ink’s dried on your wedding license.”

“Believe me, my nuptials are my highest priority,” said Garrett, his eyes still on Merrill’s closed apartment door.

“I’m sure they are,” growled Carver.

***

“Just wait until you see what I’ve brought you from Val Royeaux!” said Merrill. Marethari watched as she tore off her cowl and tossed it onto the bed beside her valise.  With her vallaslin in, she looked almost exactly like her father—the same proud brow, the same determined chin. She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look on her.

“Merrill,” began Marethari in a heavy tone. She slowly placed her daughter’s handbag on her dressing table. “I know I should have mentioned it in my last letter—“

“Here we are,” interrupted Merrill, draping a long feathered shawl around her mother’s shoulders.  “Do you like it?”

“—but, you see, I didn’t want to upset you,” continued Marethari.

“Isn’t it gaudy?” Merrill grinned. “It’s real Dalish-make!”

Marethari took a deep, steadying breath. There would be no good in delaying this any longer. “Merrill,” she said, “Garrett is engaged. He’s getting married again.”

“I know, Sebastian wrote me,” replied her daughter, now back at the valise. She pulled out a heavy bottle. “Real Antivan brandy! And this is for you to wear on your day off!” On Marethari’s head she plopped a cowl that vaguely resembled a slaughtered chicken.

“Then—“ Her heart leapt, and she beamed at her daughter. “Then you don’t care?”

“Not too much,” said Merrill, shrugging. “After all, he’s not married _yet._ ”

Marethari’s blood ran cold. She put down the bottle. “I don’t like the sound of that one bit.”

But her daughter’s smile, so much her father’s, never faltered. “But don’t you see, Mother? Everything has changed.”

Marethari shook her head, stern and angry and very, very frightened. “Nothing has changed. He’s still Garrett Hawke. And you’re still the chauffeur’s daughter. And you’re still reaching for the moon.”

Merrill shook her head vigorously.

“No, Mother,” she said. She fell into her father’s old rocking chair and began to rock back and forth. The smile on her face was blissful, like the cat who’d swallowed the canary whole. “The moon is reaching for _me._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * "Je Ne Vous Appelle Pas Un Menteur" translates to (of course) "I'm Not Calling You A Liar".


	6. The Disaster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill gets everything she ever wanted. Garrett gets an earful -- and more.

Garrett clutched Flora like a castaway to driftwood as the pair danced along the moonlit patio. Flora looked as lovely as ever, of course: a vision in pearls and velvet, not a hair out of place. Yet Garrett’s eye roved about, continually straying to the garden path where he knew _she_ would come. Merrill. His dream, his destruction.

Why, oh why had he invited her? The answering surge in his lower portions offered a helpful reminder, and for the hundredth time that night, Garrett cursed his stubborn chivalric disposition. It was his greatest failing, truly. When would he learn that lords like him had no luxury for romance?

But—Maker, Merrill had been beautiful. No, beautiful didn’t cut it. Gorgeous. Transcendent.  Like Andraste the Liberator herself, come down from the Heavens to free the Tevinter slaves. Part of him--a wild, angry part—refused entirely to regret inviting her.

“I wish the wedding were tomorrow,” said Flora. She looked up at him expectantly. “Don’t you?”

He nodded, his eyes still on the path at the edge of the garden. “Yes, dear.”

“Ten more days,” she sighed. “More like ten years, isn’t it?”

“Yes, dear.”  

“Father wanted to book us a flight to Llomerryn right after the reception, but I put my foot down.” Craning her noble nose up at him, she curled her hand around the back of his neck. “I certainly don’t want to spend the first eight hours of my honeymoon in a plane and,” she lowered her voice, “sitting up.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Darling!” In mock horror she pushed back from his embrace.

“What?” His fingers tightened around hers. “No. I mean, wait, what did you say?”

Flora pursed her lips. “Since when are you too preoccupied for our love life?”

_Since the day we met._ “Oh, yes, of course I’m interested, dear.” He pulled her back into a dancing frame, and rested his chin against her hair, so that he could look over her shoulder without notice.

Garrett surveyed the party, his pulse skittering. The usual fops and floozies were in attendance of course, mixed with servants and sots aplenty. There was Anders, as handsome and dour as always, standing like a sentinel at the garden entrance and refusing to look at him. Well. Two could play that game. Over in the corner was Gamlen, deep into his third bottle of champagne, and Mother too, who cast proud looks his way every few moments. He winked at her, and she smiled. Visible through the library window was Carver, surrounded like a king at court by a group of cigar-wielding businessmen. He held his own lit stogie beneath a clear sheet of lyrium alloy. Seemed everyone was in their places. Except for Merrill. Where _was_ she?

“You know,” murmured Flora, “I thought I might have a chat with your chauffeur.”

A bolt of panic raced down Garrett’s spine. “Our chauffeur? Whatever for?”

A faint line appeared between Flora’s brows. “Well, Father wishes to give me as a wedding present either a BMW or a Mercedes,” she mispronounced the Orlesian word, “and I thought she might offer her expert opinion.”

Garrett let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Fears of being caught dissolved into thoughts of the Rambler he’d restored for Mother, of the Dragon Coupe he never let anyone else drive. Of driving on sunny days with the top down and the wind through his hair; of the smell of motor oil on his hands, of the feel of leather on his fingers, behind his knees, against his naked back. Flora didn’t know about any of that, he supposed—at least, she’d never asked. Disinterest in his personal affairs had always been one of her more attractive qualities.

“Sure, sure.” Garrett pulled her closer and returning his gaze to the path once more. “But don’t worry. I’ll talk to her for you.”

“I knew I could count on you to take care of everything,” replied Flora with what might have been a hint of dryness. 

She leaned her cheek against his as they danced. The smell of lilacs and foreign cars and money hung thick around her, a perfume that grew more tiresome with each passing second.  Suddenly, violently, he wished were in the Coupe, with or without a passenger, driving far, far away.

Then he stopped mid-step. There she was. There was _Merrill._

***

Up the garden path Merrill scurried. Oh, she knew she ought to comport herself as the Captain had taught her: to throw her hair back, push her breasts high, and swagger her hips enticingly, like a ship on the ocean. But she was too excited, and besides, all that swaying and thrusting didn’t seem possible in such tight shoes.

With gloved hands she smoothed down the sides of her dress. It was a lovely white number, with blood-red roses dripping down the front and a train that fanned out behind her like butterfly wings. And that’s how she felt now: like the monarch arising from her cocoon, shaking off sleep to emerge as she’d always meant to be seen. 

Merrill stopped just short of the stairs to the patio. She’d never been so near to an Amell party before. Up close it all seemed so tactile, so concrete. The moon was low, the lanterns gleaming, the ladies on the patio as bright as flowers in bloom. She could touch any of it, all of it—whatsoever she so chose. She could never remember feeling more alive.

“Well, don’t you look lovely,” said a cold voice. It was Anders, who’d meandered beside her carrying a half-empty drink tray. His tone was matter of fact, as if he were informing her of the weather or a particularly uninteresting stock price, but it was by far the longest contiguous string of words he’d ever said to her.

“Why thank you,” she replied. 

“You must have spent quite a fortune on it,” he said, nodding at her gown.

“Not at all.”

He narrowed his eyes. “The shop must have offered a good bargain then.”

“I didn’t buy it in a shop,” she corrected. “It was a gift from a friend.”

“I see,” he said primly. “Would that we all had friends in such high places.”

She frowned and gestured to the party before her. “Haven’t we?”

Eyes on the patio, Anders didn’t speak for a moment. When he looked back to her, his expression was grim. “May I offer a word of advice?”

“I suppose.”

“They may look as we do, but they are not our friends.” The light from a nearby lantern cast a bluish shadow on his face. “You are not a toy to be picked up and played with, only to be set down at another’s whim.”

She offered a nervous chuckle. “I think I can judge the whims of others for myself, thanks.”

“Hmm. Suit yourself,” he said. He spotted something over her shoulder and walked off without another word. 

Merrill hadn’t had more than a second to process the strange conversation before the throng of partygoers parted and Garrett appeared at the top of the stairs. He wore his usual white tux and purple bowtie, of course, as handsome and gallant as ever; and he beamed at her with the sort of lovestruck expression she’d only ever seen in her most fanciful dreams. 

From the top of the stairs, he extended a hand down to her. “Darling.”

“Garrett,” she said, her voice breathless.  She took his proffered hand, and he pulled her up the staircase, right beside the rest of the lords and ladies.

She was grinning like a fool, but she didn’t care, for now she had everything she’d ever wanted right here in the palm of her silk-covered hand.

“You look transcendent,” he said.   

“Thank you,” she replied. “Sorry I’m a bit late.”

“I’d wait all night for you,” he said.  He still hadn’t let go of her hand, and she wasn’t about to remind him of it, for she had the strange little fear that the moment he let go, all of this might vanish; that the ladies would transform into maids and the lords butlers, and Garrett was turn into a cook, just like her father. He slipped his other hand around her hip, and she shivered. “Shall we dance?”

She gulped and nodded in reply.

Garrett pulled her close. She could feel the hot flutter of his breath, smell the brandy on his lips and the oil in his hair. She sighed and leaned into him. This was real. All of this was _real._ It had to be.  

Once, twice, he spun her around, like a dancer in a picture show, and the rest of the world wheeled in orbit around her. There was Mistress Leandra by the drawing room door; she was helping a pretty, dark-haired woman who’d somehow gotten champagne spilled all down the back of her dress. There was Master Gamlen, flirting equally with a champagne bottle and a bored-looking lady. There was Carver—through the library window she could see him, surrounded by old men in their smoking jackets; and he was as striking in profile as ever. There was the band, with their smart coats and shiny instruments; and the moon, bright and welcoming. Everything seemed so small and close, like looking through the telescope the wrong way round—except for the garage, which seemed so very far away. 

Merrill squeezed Garrett’s hand, and his breath hitched. The sound of it made her heart lurch. They danced together in silence, suspended in the space beneath the moon and above the gardens, and for one brief moment, everything was _perfect._

“What a lovely party,” she murmured. 

“It certainly is now,” he replied.

“The nicest you’ve ever had,” she said. “And I’ve been to all your parties.”

His fingers tensed against the small of her back. “You have?”

“Sitting up in that tree.” She nodded toward the tall oak on the far edge of the garden. 

“Oh darling,” moaned Garrett. “If I’d only known!” He pulled her close, and his lips dragged across her cheek. All she’d have to do would be to turn her head a few inches, and his mouth would be on hers. The temptation was nearly irresistible. “Maker’s breath, Merrill. Where have you been all my life?”

“Right over the garage,” she said, not bothering to hide the triumph in her voice.

“Right over my car,” he replied in a strangled voice. “Oh what a fool I’ve been.”

His lips were so close, his lids so heavy. From this distance Merrill could see the individual hairs in his beard, soft little curls, some black, others red, still others brown, and one or two white ones right around his mouth. They were all so perfect. _He_ was so perfect, like a porcelain doll or an Orlesian marionette, bent to her every whim.

She gazed up at him, caught by those amber eyes, eyes like the Captain’s, like everything she’d ever wanted. And she wanted it so badly. She’d always wanted it so badly.

“What a crush I had on you,” she murmured.

His fingers clenched around her waist. His mouth drifted closer. “It’s not too late for me, is it?”

She licked her lips. “It’s never too late for true happiness.” 

“Merrill…” He leaned closer.

But in the back of her mind she began to hear a small voice that sounded like Mother – or maybe the Captain, or maybe herself, she couldn’t tell—and she couldn’t even quite make out what it was saying, only that it was raising some protest against this reality. So at the last second she turned her cheek and rested hers against his beard.

She’d learned so many things in Val Royeaux. She’d wanted so many things, and gotten them all. But that was Val Royeaux, and this was the real world—wasn’t it? 

The voice was still there, though louder now. And it seemed to be saying—

“Garrett!” snapped Mistress Leandra, suddenly at their side.

Garrett leapt back from Merrill. The music had ended, and the band members had left their seats for a break. The patio had entirely cleared of guests, save for the two of them. Merrill supposed she ought to feel embarrassed, but a rash surge of pride flooded her instead.

“Oh, um. H-hello, Mother,” said Garrett, straightening his jacket. He slipped his hand around Merrill’s elbow and began to pull her away, but Merrill remained fixed in place.

“Son,” growled Mistress Leandra, “I don’t believe I know this young lady.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Hawke,” said Merrill. Mistress Leandra offered her a surprised look, as very few Kirkwallers bothered to call her by her married name. In response, Merrill politely inclined her chin as she’d seen done by the ladies of the Orlesian court.

“Mother,” said Garrett, his fingers sweaty against Merrill’s arm, “this is Miss Sabrae.”

Mistress Leandra’s eyes popped. “Merrill?”

“Yes of course,” said Merrill, unable to maintain her composure any longer. She broke into a wide grin. 

“Yes of course,” repeated Mistress Leandra. Her hand fluttered against her breast.

“You didn’t recognize me, did you?” Merrill beamed all the harder. “Have I changed? Have I really changed?”

Mistress Leandra’s eyes narrowed.

“You certainly have,” she said. “You do look lovely, Merrill. Especially those markings. Er. On your face.”

“Vallaslin,” corrected Merrill. “Thank you! They mean I’ve come of age now.” 

“How convenient to have a reminder.” She smiled with her usual kindliness. “They certainly do suit you.”

“Don’t they?” piped in Garrett. His voice was thin and strained. “I thought it’d be fun to ask her to the party, you know, as kind of a welcome-back-to-the-neighborhood.”

Merrill smiled blissfully and tapped the back of her hand against Garrett’s chest. “Garrett’s been just wonderful, Mrs. Hawke,” she said, letting her fingers linger against his lapel, playing with the white rose on his tux. “He met me at the station and drove me home.”

“Did he,” said Mistress Leandra with a sharp look at her son. “How neighborly of him.”

Garrett grabbed Merrill’s hand in his and shoved both out of sight. “She’s been to Val Royeaux, Mother, did you know?”

“Yes, I knew.” Mistress Leandra looked up from their intertwined hands, and her voice sweetened. “My dear elf, you must come over sometime and cook something very special for us. I want to see what you’ve learned.”

Garrett tensed, but the words didn’t bother Merrill. Mistress Leandra wasn’t a cruel woman, she knew that, but she was a lady, and that meant it was her obligation to remind everyone around her of their respective places. In a way, her reaction was a good thing, for it meant she must perceive Merrill as a threat – which implied a tremendous amount about the depth of Garrett’s affection. Merrill smiled even more broadly. “Oh, I’ve learned a lot,” she said.

The orchestra began to play again, and Garrett dragged Merrill back toward the dance floor with a sparse smirk at his scowling mother.

He swept them across the patio like a child’s whirl-a-gig, into the main thick of dancers and away from Mistress Leandra, then out again to the fringes. In the crush of people Merrill spotted Carver, who now danced with the same dark-haired woman who’d spilled champagne on her dress earlier. Carver was a champion dancer, she knew, for he was the one who’d taught her how all those years ago, back when they were children, playing together in the garden lawns.  His eyes caught hers and she winked at him. His face reddened. Quickly he spun his partner away.

Then Garrett led the pair of them into the drawing room, away from the glass doors and into a dark alcove sheltered from the rest of the guests. 

“Oh Garrett,” she said, heart in her throat. “This is ever so much more fun than just watching from a tree.”

“I’m so glad you came back, Merrill.” Garrett leaned one hand on the wall behind her. He loomed above her, tall and beautiful, the moonlight giving his hair the look of an unearthly halo. “I’ll never let you fly away again.”

“Never?”

“Never.”

Sighing, she placed a hand on his arm to steady herself. He was shaking slightly, or maybe she was. Yes. This was real. _This_ was real. Probably. Most likely.

But there was only one way to know for sure.

“Garrett,” she lifted her chin, “would you like to kiss me?”

“Would I?” He smirked.

Her fingers tangled in his coat sleeve. “Yes, a nice, steady kiss. Not interrupted by an oliphant this time.”

“An—oliphant?”

“You don’t remember?”

Garrett frowned. “I remember going to the circus once.”

“I was nine years old. And you had your arms around me because you and Carver were sneaking me backstage to see Wrinkles the Oliphant. And suddenly—you kissed me. I’ve never forgotten.”

By the patio doors, there was the sound of feminine laughter. Swallowing, Garrett cast a furtive glance back toward the noise.  “Oh Merrill, let’s get out of here.”

She nodded. “Let’s.”

“Tell you what,” he said, with another glance behind him. “You slip away first, and I’ll meet you at—“

“The indoor tennis court,” she finished.

“Yes.”

“And you’ll bring champagne.”

“O-Of course.”

She grinned.

A moment later, so did Garrett. “You saw an awful lot from that tree, didn’t you?”

“And you’ll have the orchestra play ‘Isn’t it Romantic’,” she added firmly.

“Anything for you, darling.”

“The demon’s in the details,” she said with a wink. Then, with one last happy look, she floated past him, leaving him satisfyingly dazzled in her wake.

Yes, this was real. And it was all _hers._

On her way to the path she passed by Carver, who still danced with the dark-haired woman. Merrill smiled at him. If he smiled back, she did not see. But she assumed he did. Why wouldn’t he? Why wouldn’t the entire world be smiling with her now?

As she passed the old tree, she smiled at it too, dragging her fingers lightly against the bark.

“Hello, old friend,” she murmured. She removed her shoes—such fancy things, jeweled and feathered at the tips and entirely too impractical for common use. Her mother had frowned grievously when she’d seen them, which of course made Merrill love them all the more –and she laid them at the base of the tree. “Would you mind holding onto these for me? Thank you.”

Then she threw her head back, thrust her chest out high and sauntered like a ship captain all the way out to the tennis courts. 

***

Blood pounding in his ears, Garrett strode to the band leader and whispered Merrill’s request in his ear. The band leader winked and nodded, then went back to his instrument.

Patting him on the shoulder, Garrett turned around—only to nearly collide with Anders, who had appeared behind him as silently as a cat. Garrett lurched backward, bumping into the band leader and causing his next note to go loudly flat. 

“Why, hello.” Garrett chuckled. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“What on earth do you think you’re doing with that poor girl,” Anders snarled. 

Garrett shot a frantic look at the band leader, but he didn’t seem to have heard. Sighing, he put a hand on Anders’s shoulder and led him aside, out of earshot. “What I do is none of your concern,” he explained once they were alone.

“But Flora--”

“Stuff Flora,” growled Garrett. “I never wanted to marry her anyway.”

Anders looked like he’d been punched. Then the lines of his face hardened, until he became like carven marble.

“Don’t be a fool, Garrett,” he said, his voice deep and merciless. “The girl only wants you for your money. That’s all her kind ever want.”

“And what is that supposed to mean, _her kind_? Last I checked you were the same kind.” Garrett narrowed his eyes. “Is that what makes you such an expert on her motives now?”

“How dare—“ Anders stopped short and collected himself. “Fine. You obviously know what you’re about. Do as you wish.” He started to walk away.

A sharp frission of panic ran up Garrett’s spine, and he grabbed Anders’s coat sleeve. “No, Anders. Please. Tell me more. Because honestly, I’m dying to know what _your kind_ wants.”

Anders stared dumbly down at Garrett’s hand. Then, roughly, he shrugged it off.

“More than you are at liberty to offer, Master Amell,” he said. His words were like knives in Garrett’s softest places. Then Anders pushed past his employer and stalked down to the servants’ entrance, alone. 

Garrett ground his teeth.  When he was finished deliberately not thinking about what Anders had said and how angry it had made him and how frustrating the man still was—had always been, really, that Anderfellian charisma was as charming as a cactus—and how dare he imply Merrill was using anyone; what did that man know about being used?—Garrett stalked over to Corff, plucked out the nearest bottle of champagne and stuffed two glasses into his back pockets. 

When he turned around, his brother was regarding him curiously.

Garrett jumped back and laid a hand to his chest. “Maker, I wish people would stop doing that tonight.”

“Everything alright?”

“Yes, yes, it’s fine,” he said distractedly.

“He seemed pretty steamed.” Carver’s tone was level and careful. “You didn’t fire him, did you?”

“I said it’s fine,” he snapped. 

“I see.” Carver let out a grim breath. “Got a minute?”

“Not right now.” Garrett tried to maneuver around his brother, but Carver stepped in his way.

“Gamlen would like to see you.”

“Gamlen can suck an egg.” He turned away. “I’m busy.”

“I think you’d better come along,” said Carver. “He’s frothing like a hurlock. Mother too.”

“Oh? What about?”

“Guess,” said Carver, with a significant look at the bottle of champagne in Garrett’s hand. 

Garrett cleared his throat. Still shaken from his conversation with Anders, he allowed Carver to guide him to the study, where both Gamlen and Mother were there waiting for them.

“I’m telling you, Leandra, the boy should driven out of the family,” said Gamlen, who paced back and forth, ice cubes clinking against the glass in his hand as he walked.

“This is your fault, you know,” snapped Mother. “If it hadn’t been for your poor influence—“

Gamlen wheeled on his sister. “Mine? More like that—that— _Fereldan_ you married.”

“How _dare_ you speak of Malcolm in that tone in my own house!”  

“It was mine first!”  

“Uncle.” interrupted Carver. The two whipped about and glared at him. “Remember your blood pressure.”

Gamlen blinked and nodded. For a brief moment, the tension fled from his shoulders—until he spotted Garrett, and his hackles raised once more.

“ _You,_ ” he snarled.

Garrett shrugged. “Me.”

“Don’t sass me. Now, I’m not saying all Amells have been saints,” Gamlen began, as Carver discreetly shut the doors to the study. “There was a Castillion Amell who was a slave trader and there was a Solona Amell who was a vaudeville magician and there was my great-great uncle Aristide Amell who was shot in Montsimmard while attempting to fix the lyrium markets. But there was never an Amell who has behaved as you have behaved here tonight.”

“Good thing I’m a Hawke then,” said Garrett, rolling his eyes. “Exactly what have I done this time?”

“What have you done?” he cried Gamlen. He looked at Mother, who shook her head. “What has he _done_?”

“Uncle, your blood pressure,” said Carver.

“No gentleman makes love to a servant in his mother’s house!”

“She is not a servant,” snapped Garrett.

“She’s a servant’s daughter. And in behaving as you have, you’ve embarrassed not only your family but also our chauffeur.” Gamlen’s face had gone ruddy--from anger or drink, it wasn’t clear. “I’ve too much respect for Sabrae to ever intrude on her personal life, and I expect you to have the same respect for her daughter.”

“I have plenty of respect for her daughter,” snapped Garrett.

“We can see that, love.” Mother laid a hand on his arm. “But what about respect for your fiancée?”

“But I love her!” cried Garrett.

Mother dropped her hand, her face paling. Carver walked over to the couch and poured himself a tall glass of brandy.

“He loves her,” sneered Gamlen. “He loves her! Next thing we know he’ll drag her to an Eluvian in the Deep Roads somewhere and they’ll elope through it in the middle of the night.”

“Maybe we will!” shouted Garrett, face hot with righteous fury.

“Garrett,” said Mother sharply. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Carver walked back to the argument then, his eyes straying curiously to his brother’s backside. 

“Let’s overlook for the moment that you’re engaged,” said Gamlen, “and instead examine your marital record to date.”

“Yes, I know,” sighed Garret. “I’ve made three mistakes—“

“Mistakes? First, that Qunari countess who only married you to bring her family over. Her mother, a father, and seven brothers, all of whom were badly in need of costly horn surgeries.”

Garrett sighed irritably. “Do we really need to go through this again?” 

“And that Orlesian girl, her family 50 years on the social register, and she has the audacity to wear on her wedding dress not a corsage but a Nightingale button!”

“Uncle,” said Carver placatingly. 

“Then that great actress, the Lady Elegant, turns out all she does is commercials for mending needles.” He mimed stitching up a pair of torn trousers, and a vein had begun to pulse dangerously on the side of his neck. “And now. Our chauffeur’s daughter.”

“Uncle, are you through?” Garrett’s smirk would have been at home on a shark. “Because there’s someone waiting for me.” 

“I am _not_ through! And I’m sure your brother has a few words to say!”

“Yes I do,” said Carver, stepping between the two of them. “But I’m not so sure you’re going to like them, Uncle. Because,” he nodded at his brother, “I think you’re being a little unfair.”

All three heads in the room swerved to look at Carver.

“I’m _what_?” said Gamlen.

“Well, I think Garrett’s old enough to live his own life, if he decides that,” he took a healthy swig of his drink, “Merrill’s the girl for him.” 

“Carver!” cried Mother.

“Nonsense!” cried Gamlen.

“Brother,” murmured Garrett, awestruck, “do you really mean that?”

“Of course I mean it,” Carver replied. His eyes drifted down to his drink and back up again. Then he patted his brother’s lapel amiably. 

Garrett watched Carver closely, but saw no lie behind the kind smile. He felt like he’d never seen his brother before this moment. “But it would knock your plans for a loop.”

“What, the lyrium merger?” Carver waved a hand dismissively. “Forget it. If you love her, take her. This is the Dragon Age.”

“The Dragon Age?” Gamlen sputtered. “Pah! You children think you invented modern sensibilities. It could be the Lemming Age for all that matters.” He turned back to Garrett. “You get rid of that girl immediately, do you understand? And you’ll apologize to your mother and your fiancée.”

“Now Uncle, don’t push him.” Carver laid a hand on both Garrett and Gamlen’s shoulders. “Let’s all sit down and discuss this like civilized people.” He looked behind Garrett and pushed him backward. “Go on, Garrett. Sit down.”

“Thank you, Carver,” said Garrett smugly.

He backed up and almost sat down on the wooden chair, but then he remembered Merrill still waiting for him out in the tennis courts. “Look, I really have to go—“  

“You want me to help you or don’t you?” said Carver.

“Of course. And I appreciate what you’re saying—“

“Then sit down,” said Carver firmly.

Garrett smiled at his little brother. “Carver,” he wagged his finger as he backed up toward the chair behind him, “you’re the only one in this family who understands m—“

Garrett promptly forgot whatever he was about to say as his backside exploded in pain.  

“Garrett!” cried Mother, rushing to his side. “Whatever is the matter?”

“The champagne glasses,” he yowled. “I’ve sat—oh Maker!”

The rest of his sentence was swallowed by his howls of agony. By his side, Carver took another sip of brandy, and Garrett couldn’t be sure but he thought his brother might be hiding a smile.


	7. The Substitute Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill drinks too much, Carver identifies with an oliphant, and between them, everything begins to change.

Inside the tennis court the air was warm and close, the kind of hot stillness where no matter how deeply one sighed one never quite seemed to catch one’s breath. Pale moonlight streamed through the high windows, falling on the court in long beams, like spotlights on a stage. Merrill paced between them. Garrett would be here soon, and then—! The anticipation of it sent shivers up and down her skin, and they burrowed deeper still, down to the pit of her belly, the core of her heart.

Merrill caught the sound of far-off violins, and back and forth she swayed with a wistful smile. This song had been one of her Father’s favorites. He used to sing it to her as he’d wheeled her about in their apartment: she on his toes, his big hands strong and gentle around hers. He’d bow to her and call her ‘my queen’, which never failed to make her squeal in delight; and then he’d whirl her about until she’d felt dizzy, at which point Mother would cut in, and their laughter would fill the room like music.

Grabbing her skirts she gave into the song and spun on her toes like a ballerina. Around and around she twirled, a plié here, a grapevine there. She danced in and out of moonbeams, losing herself in the shadows between. She tried to remember the feel of her father’s boots under her feet, and for a brief moment, she almost could—for tonight, there was a magic in the air, the kind that made all impossible things possible once more. 

Then out of the corner of her eye, she caught movement down the garden path. _Garrett._

In a flash of inspiration, she sprinted over to the referee’s chair and climbed the steps up to its seat. In Garrett would walk and see her sitting there, high above everything; and he would finally make real all those fantasies she’d always had, in which he’d spot her up in her tree and pull her down to his side—the gallant knight coming to his princess’s rescue.  

Merrill settled her skirts, watched the door expectantly and waited for her dreams to come true.

But it was not Garrett who entered the court. 

Stunned, she watched as in walked Carver, his suit dull-gray as ever, his sensible shoes barely audible on the court floor. In his hands he carried a bottle of champagne and two glasses. The accoutrements seemed terribly out of place for a man so seriously attired—or perhaps they suited the space, and he was the one out of place instead.

“Merrill?” From up here, Carver seemed much too small, like a toy soldier marching at her whim. “Are you in here?”

“Up here,” she said.

Startled, he whirled toward the chair. When he spotted her, his face slackened suddenly; his mouth might have even hung open, though from this height she couldn’t be sure. “Right. Of course you are. Hello. I—er.” He cleared his throat and held up the bottle as if for proof. “I bring champagne.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Garrett sent me,” he said. He approached Merrill, his concentration fixed on unwrapping the champagne bottle.

“But isn’t he coming?” Fear pulsed through Merrill. She was keenly aware of her bare feet, dirty and grass-stained, dangling above Carver. She wished she hadn’t left her shoes back at the tree.   

“No, I don’t think he’ll be able to make it.” Carver popped the champagne cork, and it landed somewhere in the darkened stands. Merrill tried not to wince.

“What happened?”

“He got,” Carver thought a moment, “stuck.”

“Stuck?”

“Oh, nothing serious. Just a minor pain in the ass.” He poured champagne into the two glasses and set the bottle on the floor. “So should I serve you up there? Or will you come down to me? I mean, to my level.” When she didn’t move, he nodded resolutely. “Up it is then. Here I come.”

Carver began to climb the steps up to her seat. Her toe grazed his elbow and was tickled by the stiff, freshly-brushed fabric. She jerked her foot back. Suddenly the idea of her ever being a princess seemed very silly indeed.

“Stop.” Her voice sounded harsh in her ears. “I’ll come down.”

Carver backed away to let her climb down off the chair. She barely came to his chin, but she lifted her head and threw back her shoulder blades, refusing to feel cowed by either his height or his curious and intent stare.

“It is funny, isn’t it?” he asked.

“What is?”

“How we keep meeting. First you’re under eight cars looking for a missing spark plug, now you’re judging a tennis match between two missing players.” He chuckled darkly. “You’re always looking for what’s lost, but you find me instead.”

“I suppose,” she replied, a little confused. “Though it’s the other way around, isn’t it? You always do the finding, not me.”

As he shrugged, the smile faded from his lips.

“You look pretty, Merrill, and with your vallaslin,” he properly pronounced the word, and when she offered him an impressed smile, his eyes darted away, “very sophisticated.”

For some reason, she wasn’t sure why, she wished he hadn’t said that.

“I’d better get back to the party,” she said and started to walk toward the door.

“What, and leave me to drink all this by myself?” Merrill looked back to him, and he was actually _grinning_ at her, teeth and all. Creators, this was unsettling. She wasn’t used to Carver smiling, or laughing, or telling jokes—that was usually his brother’s work, and all this open sarcasm fitted him about as well as his suit.

But Carver didn’t have a bad smile, she decided. In fact, he could likely stand to use it more often.

“What did Garrett say?” she murmured.

He sighed.

“I don’t know what you did to him,” he said in a voice that sounded more like the Carver she knew, “but I haven’t seen him in such a state since he took a wallop mallet to the head at the Denerim-Kirkwall match of ‘32.”

A surge of triumph warmed Merrill to her core. “I’m glad you think so.”

“It’s amnesia, for sure,” he continued. “He’s completely forgotten he’s engaged. He only wants you.”

“And I want him,” she replied firmly. She met Carver’s eyes and did not blink. “I’ve been in love with him all my life.”

He shrugged. “Well,” he said lightly, “there goes the engagement.”

She cocked her eyebrow. “You don’t object?”

“Object? To _you_?” He smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing upward. “How could I? It’s as if someone threw open the window, and a fresh spring breeze has swept through our dusty old estate.”

It was a kinder sentiment than she’d ever imagined she’d hear from any of the Amells, much less Garrett’s only remaining sibling, and the gentleness with which he’d uttered it made Merrill’s throat go dry. But she had to be sure. “Even if the breeze wafts in from the garage?”

The creases around his eyes deepened as he offered her a glass of champagne. “It’s the Dragon Age, Merrill. Don’t be such a snob.”

She laughed. “I’ll drink to that.”

Their fingers brushed as he handed the glass to her. It was only to be expected, his hands being as large as they were, but Carver flinched back anyway as if she burned him. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It happens.”

“No, I mean, I’m sorry it isn’t Garrett here instead of me.” He raised his glass in a toast. “But it’s all in the family, right?” 

“Er, right,” she said, raising her glass and drinking.

As he sipped he gave her a look that felt like an invitation to something, though to what Merrill couldn’t quite say. The potential of it felt very dangerous, and it made her accidentally drink more than she’d meant to.

When she finished her glass, she drifted away from him, wanting to put some distance between them. “You know, when you walked in here just now,” she said, “I was sure you’d been sent by your family to deal with me.”

“To—deal with you?” His voice was carefully neutral.

“Mm-hmm. Like in _Ikarus: A Love Story._ The young prince falls in love with a beautiful actress, and the prime minister is sent to buy her off.”

Carver’s mouth took on a crooked tilt. “I see.”

She twirled her glass stem, for lack of anything better to do with her fingers. “First he offers her 5,000 coppers. ‘No,’ she says. ‘10,000?’ ‘No!’”

“15,000 coppers,” he offered, closing the distance between them once more.

“No!”

“25,000 coppers.”

“No.”

“25,000 sovereigns.”

She glared at him. “How did sovereigns get into this?”

“25,000 sovereigns, and after taxes too.” Cold blue eyes glittered like burnished gems. “That’s quite a bit of money, wouldn’t you say?”

“And just what _are_ youtrying to say?” She searched his face but could read nothing of his thoughts on it.

“Only trying to make it worth your while,” he replied with a smile that came nowhere near his eyes. “What’s a copper these days? No self-respecting prime minister would offer coppers.”

Is that really what Carver thought of her? She looked down at her drink to hide her disappointment. “No self-respecting actress would take sovereigns.”

He let out his breath in one great relieved huff, like a mabari curling into bed for the night. She chanced a glimpse up at him. The iciness had melted from his eyes, and he looked young once more.

“Good,” he said.

Then he leaned over and kissed her on the temple, quick and soft and friendly-like. Merrill smiled. She supposed she shouldn’t hold his suspicions against him. After all, even she could admit that from the wrong perspective the situation with Garrett might be misconstrued, that her sudden reappearance in their lives might imply her intentions to be less than pure.  She’d just have to work harder to make him see, to make them all see. And to be so concerned about his brother—well, Carver was very sweet, decided Merrill, in his own quiet way.

A fuzzy feeling burbled in her belly. This champagne was also very sweet. And strong. She liked it very much.  

“So,” Carver walked back to the bottle to refill their glasses. “How does this opera end?”

“I don’t remember,” she admitted. She’d fallen asleep on the Captain’s arm that night. “I guess they run away together on an oliphant, with everybody singing like mad.” She grinned down at her glass as he refilled it and felt warm all over, her cheeks burning from drink and renewed confidence.

Carver chuckled. “And they open a brewery in Llomerryn.”

She giggled. “Yes! The Tusk and Pint.”

“The Ivory Flagon.”

“The Wrinkled Stout!”

“Oh, I like that one.” He raised his glass again. “To oliphants, then, and their love of fine ale.”

“To oliphants!” She laughed and downed her glass in one gulp. Carver’s eyes went wide, then he grinned and downed his too. He poured them both another.

Softly the opening notes of the orchestra’s next song began to drift through the court. Merrill’s laughter faded.

“There it is. ‘ _Isn’t It Romantic?’_ ” she sighed, smiling through her disappointment

“I suppose,” said Carver, frowning, “if you find pachyderms getting sick in your loo romantic.”

“No, I mean the song.” She began to meander her way across the tennis court. “It’s the song they were playing the night before I went away.” She stopped at the tennis court net, remembering how Garrett had slapped the barrier down, as if it were nothing. “Garrett was right here, dancing it with someone else. Tonight I wanted it to be me.”

Carver swallowed. “I know how you feel.”

“You do?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he walked toward her, his expression serious, and he didn’t stop until he was inches away. Merrill’s heart skittered. The champagne, maybe, was making her a little dizzy.  

Carver was a very handsome man when he wanted to be, and it was very lucky for everyone, thought Merrill, that he so rarely wanted to be.

He laid a hand on her hip and for one brief, wild moment, she thought—well, she wasn’t sure what she thought. The champagne made it hard to think. But then he raised his hand.

“Dance with me,” he said. “Please.”

She nodded, unable to speak. He rested his cheek against the top of her head; his hand fell on the small of her back. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe the fatigue of wanting something so badly and being denied it, or maybe just the kindness of having a warm body so near – but she couldn’t help herself from sagging into his embrace.  

As they danced, she thought once more of her childhood, of the long guileless days spent around and near the Amell boys. For one brief summer Mistress Amell had insisted her sons take dancing lessons, and she’d been volunteered as Carver’s partner, as they’d been the same height back then. To think, he’d been so small once. Not like now. Now he was large and warm and impossibly close, and he smelled like the solid earth after a rainstorm, and it was very nice, very nice indeed.

Smiling, she slid her hand up along Carver’s shoulder. He shuddered slightly at her touch, which she quite liked. Garrett could do with more shuddering around her, she decided. She’d have to speak to him about it.

Creators, but Carver really was built under that ill-fitting suit. And his bare cheek rubbed against her skin in a most pleasant fashion. Between the wine and the warmth, she was tipsy enough that if she closed her eyes, she could almost, _almost_ convince herself this was Garrett: that this was his bicep, made strong from wallop matches; that this was wine-warmed breath fluttering against her neck. He and his brother were almost the same height after all, if not the same build or smell or anything else. And one’s elevation did count for so much in this world.

“Merrill,” Carver murmured in her ear.

She hummed happily, the warmth and wine making her sleepy.

“If Garrett were here,” his voice rumbled against her chest, “you’d expect him to kiss you right now, wouldn’t you?”

Drowsily she nodded, too fuzzy-headed to consider the question in anything other than the abstract.

“Then here’s a kiss.” When he drew his cheek back, Carver’s stubble almost felt like beard bristles against her skin. “From Garrett.”

Carver’s lips landed on hers. He offered only the slightest bit of pressure, his mouth closed and soft and so, so warm. She stifled a moan of surprise.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d done it, he pulled back. The moment passed, gone like a bubble in a glass of champagne.

She stared at him, open-mouthed. Did—did he? Her pulse pounded in her ears; her fingers tip-tapped against his shoulder, twisting in the bunched fabric. Yes—yes he’d kissed her. And she—

What _had_ she been about to do?

He smiled down at her, the moonlight catching in his eyes and turning them the color of a calm sea. “It’s all in the family, right?”  

Her stomach flip-flopped traitorously.

He didn’t wait for an answer before pulling her back against him. Palm resting lightly against the small of her back, he held her at a polite distance for the remainder of the song, and it was as if nothing had happened. But it had. It _had._ Hadn’t it?

Merrill’s eyes drifted back toward the moon, framed by the high window. For a brief moment she swore she could just make out Satina, the dark moon, blue-black and gleaming, emerging from behind the limb of his brother. But then she blinked, and it was gone.


	8. The Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver checks up on his brother and gets dating advice from an unusual source.

Carver knocked on his brother’s bedroom door and, without waiting for an answer, let himself in. Garrett, moaning and miserable, was strewn about his silk sheets like a discarded dressing gown, his bandaged but otherwise bare ass jutting toward the ceiling. Carver rolled his eyes. This was just like his brother, always managing to find himself ass-over-teakettle in the most compromising position possible.

Every man had his talents.

“It’s only me,” he announced. “How are you feeling?”

“Never better,” groaned Garrett, burying his face in his pillows.

“You look better. Have the painkillers worn off yet?” Carver jabbed one of the bandages with a rigid forefinger. Garrett screamed. The sound gave Carver no small delight, for he was a simple man of simple pleasures. “I guess they have.”

“Twenty-three stitches,” his brother moaned. “My ass looks like one of Mother’s quilts.”

“Let’s hope the doctor didn’t cross-stitch his name back there too. I brought you a present,” said Carver, showing off the bundle in his hands.

If Garrett was interested in Carver’s generosity, he didn’t show it—but that was hardly anything new. “What happened last night?” His voice took on a pathetically frantic tone. “Was Merrill mad that I didn’t show?”

“No,” said Carver with a shrug. “Just disappointed.”

He then turned his attention to the room, searching for the best place to unroll his gift. Garrett’s quarters resembled those of an aging prize fighter, with plush high-backed chairs, bull statuettes, and old trophies jammed onto every end table and bookcase. It was all glamor and machismo, thought Carver, and hardly anything of any real use.

“Poor kid,” groaned Garrett. “What did you tell her?”

On the far wall Carver spotted a stuffed wyvern head that Garrett had acquired in Orlais; why Garrett kept it, Carver had no idea, for it was just as ugly in death as it had been in life. But it would work now. Smiling grimly, Carver slung one end of his gift over the crooked horn.

 “The truth.” Carver unrolled his bundle and slung the other end over the pole of Garrett’s dust-covered boxing stand. “That the family objected, but you stood up to them like a man. Before you sat down like a jackass,” he added with a smug chuckle. 

“Sure, laugh at my pain.” Garrett’s head sagged back onto his pillows. “What a brother.”

“Oh, quit your bellyaching. Here,” Carver gestured to his assembled gift: a long, sturdy hammock made of thinly-rolled lyrium alloy, as flexible as plastic but twice as strong. In the center a large hole had been cut out to accommodate Garrett’s generously-bundled behind. Carver was rather proud of it. “This ought to make you feel better.”

“A--lyrium hammock?” Garrett eyed the gift dubiously. “I’ve never seen one before.”

“That’s because there’s never been one before. I designed it myself, and I personally ran it off at the factory this morning.”

“On a Sunday?”

“Why not?” He swung the hammock up so he could look at his big brother through the hole. “You were in pain.”

Garrett beamed. “What a brother!”

Carver smiled back. Usually Garrett’s lack of interest in the family business irritated him, but after the night he’d had, he allowed himself to feel a flush of pleasure at the approval, without worrying how sincere it might be.

“Alright, let’s try it out. On your feet, soldier.” Slinging an arm underneath Garrett’s shoulders, Carver helped his brother shuffle over to the hammock. When he laid down, his backside fit the stamped out hole perfectly. “Am I good or what?” he said, lightly tapping Garrett’s posterior with his shoe.

Garrett howled. “Carver!” 

“Oops.” Carver bit back a grin.  

“I hate champagne,” moaned Garrett. “What a terrible drink.”

“Orlesians have no taste buds,” agreed Carver, pulling up an overstuffed chair by his brother. With a dry smirk he added, “Give me a Llomerryn wrinkled stout any day.”

But Garrett took no notice of Carver’s strange commentary. Instead, he heaved a great sigh, the kind Carver knew all too well—the kind that usually prefaced a statement that meant trouble for all involved.

“So what did you think of Merrill?” Garrett asked.  

Carver had a flash of Merrill in her crisp white gown pressed against him, small and warm and soft, her laughter like a song whose name he couldn’t quite remember.

“Wonderful girl,” he said truthfully.

“Were you nice to her?”

Carver looked down at his hands. “As nice as I could be.”

“What a brother!” Carver had the sudden urge to punch Garrett square in the jaw. The desire was a habitual one, however, and he’d since learned how to manage it, as he might a stutter or an addiction to drink. Garrett smiled on, oblivious. “You know, I’ve been trying to write her a sonnet, but I can’t seem to find the words. What rhymes with ‘elfish’?”

“Hmm. Elfish, elfish.” Carver looked down at his brother and for a long moment did not answer. “Shellfish.”

“Of course,” chirruped Garrett brightly. Then, like a mercurial ocean tide, his mood shifted and he sighed again. “Ah, if only Merrill were here.”

“She’d certainly be exposed to a different side of you if she were,” agreed Carver, nodding toward Garrett’s backside.

“Hmm. Good point.” Garrett frowned. “This isn’t my most dignified angle. And we wouldn’t want to do anything to spoil it, would we?”

“No,” said Carver gravely, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. “We sure wouldn’t.”

Garrett leaned back in the hammock. Morning light streamed through the curtains and set his beard aglow, and Carver thought of fire-lit Maferath from the Orlesian murals decorating the Chantry. But if Garrett were Maferath, did that make Carver Andraste, or Shartan? “Carver,” he said contentedly, “would you do me a favor?”

“Any time.”

“I know how social things bore you, but—would you mind keeping an eye on Merrill for me? As long as I’m laid up?”

“I’m way ahead of you,” said Carver, leaning his elbows onto his knees. “As a matter of fact, I’m taking her sailing this afternoon.”

“Sailing?”

“Mm-hmm. In your boat.”

Garrett’s eyebrow quirked upward. “You know how to sail?”

“Of course I do,” said Carver, unable or unwilling to hide the irritation that had crept into his voice. “We used to go the three of us, with Bethany. Don’t you remember?”

“Oh yes, of course,” replied Garrett quickly, with the dull glaze in his eyes that usually indicated he had no idea what Carver was talking about. “With Bethany.”

Carver ground his teeth. He supposed he couldn’t blame his brother for not remembering those days, since by that time Garrett had already been a teenager, his head taken over by his life-long mission to find his way beneath the skirts of every debutante in the Free Marches. But Carver found it hard not to resent his brother’s forgetfulness, for he himself jealously guarded his own memories of his sister. He would never forget her— _could_ never.

As if sensing Carver’s morose turn of thoughts, Garrett suddenly threw back his head and tossed out his hands and made himself to look as ridiculous as possible.

“Oh, Merrill!” he cried. “Tell her we’ll be off, just the two of us, the moment Dr. Lirene takes these stitches out.”

Carver twitched. “Then you’ve made up your mind.”

“Of course I have,” said Garrett. “This is it!”

“Right. I just want to be sure, because this has been ‘it’ three times before.”

“I was blind, that’s why,” said Garrett with a shrug. “It’s been Merrill and I since we were kids. I just couldn’t see her for the tree.”

“Is that so? Then what about Flora? What about Mother, or Gamlen?” Carver hesitated before continuing, wondering if he should bother, whether it was even his place. “What about Anders?”

Something hardened in in Garrett’s jaw, and his eyes became as cold as marble.

“What does Anders have to do with this?” he growled.

Carver shrugged in a conciliatory manner. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“Because Anders can take a short walk off a long pier,” he continued.

Carver nodded and did not bother to correct his brother.

“Anyway, what about them, what about any of them? Flora will be so broken up she’ll go out and buy three new hats.” As Garrett spoke, the iciness began to thaw from his features. “Mother will go to bed with a severe headache and the latest Tethras serial. And as for Gamlen—well, he’ll rant and rave and threaten to ship me off somewhere cold and faraway, but he doesn’t have the power to do any of it, and he knows it. That’s where you come in.”

“Oh? How?” Because, thought Carver, he _did_ have the power to ship Garrett off somewhere cold and faraway, and the idea sounded more and more attractive by the second. 

“You’ll smooth over everyone’s ruffled feathers. You’re always so good at it.”

Carver snorted. “Only because you’re so good at ruffling them in the first place.” 

“You sell yourself short, Carver.” Garrett stared up at him with an expression usually deployed by mabaris begging dinner scraps. It would have been pathetic, if it weren’t so effective. “C’mon, be a pal. Help out your older brother in his time of need.” 

“Yes, yes. I’m going to help you.” Carver sighed. “Somehow.”

There was another knock at the door, and after a moment, in strode Flora Harriman. She was a lovely enough woman, pretty in a classically Marcher way, with dark hair and darker brows, though her nose had just enough Starkhaven in it to be considered exotic by Kirkwall’s upper crust. In the year and a half since the engagement, Carver had only seen her a handful of times, but he’d found her sharper and wittier than Garrett’s typical fare, though perhaps no less spoiled.

This morning she was impeccably dressed and delicately coiffed, as per usual. On one arm she carried a full basket of baked goods and other treats.

“Oh, Garrett,” she cooed, dashing to her fiance’s side in a flurry of perfume and skirts. “How’s my poor little puppy?”

Garrett moaned dramatically and held his head, which, to Carver’s knowledge, he hadn’t sat on.

“Oh, how terrible you look! Good morning, Carver,” she said, nodding to him politely. Then she turned back to Garrett. “I brought you some breakfast, dear—some muffins and scones, I didn’t know which you’d prefer, so I had Cook make a few kinds. They should still be warm. Oh, and I brought six books, and a deck of Diamondback.”

“Diamondback?” cried Garrett. “I’m in no condition to play Diamondback!”

“Looks to me like that’s _all_ you’re in the condition to play,” said Carver with a broad smile.

Flora nodded gravely, while Garrett shot Carver a dark look. “Father spoke with Dr. Lirene this morning, and it looks like we won’t have to delay the wedding at all. Though,” Flora fixed her fiancé with a disapproving frown, “I still don’t understand what those glasses were doing in your pockets.”

Carver marveled that there remained even one woman in the whole of the Free Marches upon which Garrett had failed to inflict his usual seduction techniques. Then again, his brother had picked up Flora in Starkhaven; perhaps the general disinterest in handball there had forced Garrett to improvise. 

“I was taking them down to the tennis courts for Carver,” said Garrett smoothly. “He was playing a game and had gotten thirsty.”

“Don’t drag me into this,” groaned Carver under his breath.

“Isn’t it true, Carver? Weren’t you thirsty?”

“As a fish,” he sighed. He couldn’t even be mad about it either, for it had been this way ever since they were kids: Whenever Garrett felt the need to hurl himself overboard, he’d grab onto the nearest Hawke and drag them along like a life ring. It had been great fun when actual water was involved. Now, not so much.

“You were playing in the dark?” Flora turned to Carver, clearly unimpressed. “In the middle of the night?”

“Sure. It seemed the reasonable thing to do at the time,” said Carver, forcing a laugh. “You know how men can be. Liquor always turns us into such little boys.”

“It just doesn’t sound like you at all,” she said, pursing her lips and looking at Carver as if it were a marvel he even knew how to tie his shoes in the morning. She shook her head. “Well, shall we play three-handed?”

“No thanks,” replied Carver with no small amount of relish. “I’ve got a date.”

“A date!” Flora grinned conspiratorially. “Now that _definitely_ doesn’t sound like you.”

“Yes,” interrupted Garrett. “A date. In _my_ boat!”

Carver rolled his eyes. “Alright, you two, have fun. And remember, no vigorous moves, not until those stitches are out,” he said, wagging a finger at them like an old schoolmarm. Flora’s mouth took on a wry tilt, while Garrett looked utterly clueless.

“I’ll tend to his needs, promise,” said Flora.

“Good.” He leveled his gaze at Garrett. “Because we wouldn’t want any complications, would we?” Carver smiled at his brother with more cheer than he felt. “So long.”

With that, he left the room, the door closing behind him like a thunderclap. He walked across the hall to his own quarters and for a moment he simply stood at the door, frowning down at the handle.

This was so much worse than he could have possibly imagined. Garrett was clearly head-over-heels for the girl, as bad or even worse than Carver had ever before seen him. It would be no mean feat to convince him otherwise. But last night Carver—

Well. He’d gotten carried away in the moment, that’s all. It had been a long time since he’d been alone with a pretty girl in a dark room, and clearly it had gone straight to his head, giving him all sorts of foolish thoughts and even more foolish desires. He’d always wondered how Garrett could pull the same tricks night after night without tiring of them. Now he knew.

Carver had been curious, that’s all. And now that curiosity had been sated.

Even still, he’d be sure to stay on his guard from now on, especially considering what he had to do next. For Merrill was a dangerous girl, and she had a way of getting under his skin—had always had a way, if he were being honest with himself, ever since they were children. But now she was all grown-up, and so was he. For both their sakes, he could no longer afford to get careless.

Carver grimaced at his sentimentality and strode into his room. Unlike his brother’s quarters, his living space was uncluttered, even sparse, filled with low modern couches and plenty of space to pace about lost in thought. His paper-strewn desk in the corner was the only furniture that showed any obvious signs of use. 

Carver tugged off his jacket and tossed it on his bed. Then he opened his closet.

Gamlen was hiding inside.

“Um,” said Carver, recoiling slightly. “Good morning, Uncle. Making yourself comfortable, I see?”

Gamlen let out a long exhale. “I thought you were your mother,” he said. As he walked out of the closet he pulled out a large bottle of brandy from behind his back. 

“I don’t mind you drinking in my room,” said Carver, “but not in my casual wear. What if you were to spill?”

“Pah, it’ll drown all the moths.” He took a long pull from the bottle.

Carver ignored his uncle and pulled out some old boat shoes from the bottom of the closet. He sat on the bed and began to unlace his oxfords. 

“Carver,” said Uncle. “We must decide right now. What are we going to do about that girl?”

Carver tugged off his shoe. “Garrett wants to run off with her.”

“I still can’t believe it. The chauffeur’s daughter!”

“Runs in the family, I suppose,” said Carver with a shrug. “After all, Father was in vaudeville.”

“Yes!” snorted Gamlen. “And look how well it turned out for him!”

Carver froze. “Careful what you say about my father, Gamlen.”

“Oh quit your bellyaching,” his uncle said, waving a dismissive hand at him. “Your pop wasn’t a bad sort, just a bit flamboyant. But the chauffeur’s daughter!”

Carver grabbed one of the boat shoes—a brown loafer that had rarely been worn over the past ten years—and began attempting to jam his foot within the stiff leather. “I don’t care if Garrett runs off with our gardener’s grandmother,” he said. “I just don’t want him to run off with the lyrium deal.”

“You know what we must do,” Gamlen said sternly. “We must fire Sabrae.”

“We can’t,” said Carver, horrified. “Not after almost twenty years of service.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Then let’s write the girl a fat check, and tell her to forget all about Garrett.”

“She doesn’t want money,” grumbled Carver. He laced his shoe with brutal, jerky movements. “She wants _love_.”

“Foolish girl,” scoffed Gamlen. “The sovereigns would hold their value better.”

“What can I say?” Carver grabbed the other shoe. “She’s the last of the true romantics.”

“Brother Genetivi ought to pay us a finder’s fee.” He snorted and took another long swig of brandy. “I still don’t understand what she sees in that damn fool.” 

“What does any woman ever see him?” Carver tried not to sound bitter, and wasn’t sure how well he succeeded.

“True enough,” said Gamlen in a similar tone. “But why pick on Garrett? Why can’t she be in love with someone else?”

“I shall do my best,” Carver promised. Then he walked back to the closet and began rummaging through the stacks of sweaters.

“Oh ho!” A sly smile crossed Gamlen’s face. “So that’s the idea?”

“Yes.”

“You have someone in mind then?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

Carver walked out of the closet then, shrugging on a fur-lined sleeveless vest that had been in style in Ferelden some ten years prior. “Me.”

Gamlen burst into laughter.

“No,” he choked out, wiping his eyes. “Oh no, no, no.”

“What’s the matter?”

“We’d be better off letting me take a crack at her,” he chortled. “At least I know where it all goes.”

Carver made a sour face.

“You think this is any fun for me?” he snapped. He shoved past his uncle to stand in front of the mirror. “I’ve got a pile of work on my desk I was hoping to get to this weekend. The whole lyrium operation must be set in motion in the next 48 hours, and here I am going off on a sailboat to make an ass out of myself with a girl who’d rather I was my brother.”

Turning to the mirror, Carver grimaced at what he saw. He looked impossibly young and desperately foreign, in a vest too small for him with far too many buckles to pass as decent.  Behind him in the mirror was Gamlen’s reflection, eyes still twinkling with laughter. Save for his apparel and the color of his hair, Gamlen might as well have been his twin. 

Carver wasn’t sure which sight, himself or his uncle, angered him more.

“Look at me,” he snarled. “Joe Ferelden with a touch of the Taint.” He yanked off the vest and slammed it on the ground.

“Maybe you should serenade her,” said Gamlen, stepping into the closet. He pulled out a small toy lyre, tiny enough to suit the fingers of a young girl.

Carver strode over to his uncle and, without preamble, yanked the instrument out of his hands. “Don’t touch that.”

Gamlen shrugged, as Carver gingerly laid the lyre on the top shelf. “It was just a thought.”

“Hmm… but you do have a point. Music might help,” said Carver, rooting around on a bottom shelf. “I have a portable phonograph around here, back from my Gallows days.”

“I only hope you remember what to do with a girl,” said Gamlen with a cruel smirk. 

Carver glared. “It’ll come back to me. It’s like riding a horse, isn’t it?”

“Don’t let her hear you say that,” said Gamlen. He clapped Carver on the back. “Good luck, boy. You’re gonna need it.“

Carver glared up at him. “We all will.”


	9. The Sea Voyage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver takes Merrill sailing, while Merrill finds a new favorite song.

“It’s nice to be on the water again. I haven’t been in ages,” said Merrill. She smiled into the breeze as it whipped her hair to and fro. Dressed in her green-checked shirt and tiny white shorts, she looked like a bit of sea foam that had gotten the wild idea to come ashore and be a girl. She belonged in a storybook, thought Carver.

“Me neither,” he replied, a little awestruck.  “Though it’s good you’re not getting seasick this time.”

“That happened once, when we were eight!” she laughed. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

The sound of her laughter sent a shiver down his spine, and his fingers tightened around the rudder post. “When a girl throws up in your lap,” he said, “you tend to remember it.”

She shrugged. “A lady must make her mark on society however she can.”  

At that Carver couldn’t help but chuckle. Merrill grinned and leaned back, crooking one elbow along the hull. Her eyes glinted in triumph as she eyed him up and down.

“So odd to see you out of a suit,” she said.

Carver looked down at his torso, as if he had no idea what she was talking about. But he had every idea. The fur-lined vest had been a calculated risk, he’d explained to Gamlen. Yes, the style was a bit old-fashioned, but the coeds back at the Gallows had always claimed his arms were his best feature—and if there was one thing Carver trusted in, it was market research. 

They hadn’t been wrong, judging by the glances Merrill sneaked at his biceps whenever she thought he wasn’t looking. Perhaps persuading her to fall in love with him would be easier than he’d anticipated.

“You can’t go sailing in a tie and blazer,” he replied loftily.

“I simply didn’t know that you owned anything that fit.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about—“ He frowned. “Hey. Wait. What’s that supposed to mean?”

She giggled, the sound floating out of her like bubbles in a champagne glass. Carver gritted his teeth against the marvelous sound and wished she’d had the decency to spend their entire excursion vomiting overboard instead.

“Oh, I don’t mean to make you self-conscious, Carver. In fact, I feel honored.” The corner of her mouth quirked wickedly upward. “It’s not every day one witnesses a sartorial miracle.”

“Says the lady who spent the last two years in the land of impossible hats.”.

“Ah, Val Royeaux—where everyone’s dreams come true,” she agreed, “even the haberdasher’s.”

She held his gaze for a long moment—then abruptly looked down, her smile vanishing like the sun behind clouds. For the briefest of moments, Carver even allowed himself to be disappointed about it.

“How’s Garrett?” she asked, all trace of laughter gone from her voice.

“Better, thank you,” he said. He busied himself with a close inspection the nearest rigging. “I believe he’s engaged in a Diamondback tournament with his fiancée as we speak.” 

“I miss him.” Merrill offered Carver a conciliatory smile. “Not that I’m not having a good time, of course.”

“Of course,” agreed Carver.

After a moment’s awkward silence, she leaned over the seat and cranked the phonograph until a jaunty tune began to tumble forth from the speaker. 

 _“You have buried yourself in the flesh of my heart like a worm in a red, red apple,”_ a tinny voice sang. “ _You heartworm you!”_

“This is a very unusual song,” said Merrill. “Is it popular?”

“Oh yes,” Carver lied. In truth he’d only brought along whichever records had been packed already in the phonograph’s case, which meant whichever records had been in fashion during his college stint. He was lucky the lyrium crystal battery still worked.

“Wonder why I never heard it before.”

“You’ve been in Val Royeaux for two years,” he said smoothly. “And I’m pretty sure the Orlesians ban any music that isn’t sung in Orlesian.”

“Good point.” She listened for a moment, the smile creeping back onto her face. “‘ _Like a worm in a red, red apple,_ ’” she sang. “’ _You heartworm you!’_ ”

She broke off into a giggle, and before he could stop himself, he was too. He couldn’t help it. That laugh of hers was infectious. It did something to his spine, to his skin—something he desperately wished it didn’t.

But if he was feeling something, then that likely meant she was too. And he had noticed her eyes drifting to his bare arms again. Perhaps now was the opportune moment to strike.

“So. Merrill.” He leaned one elbow on the hull and puffed up his chest. “You’re not like other girls.”

“That’s right. I’m an elf.”

“Oh. Uh. Right.” Carver blinked. What on earth was he to say to _that?_   “Alright then.”

Merrill cocked her head at him, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. “Did I miss something dirty?”

“What? No!” Carver’s heart raced. Had she seen right through him already? Was he that unskilled? “Of course not. You’re my brother’s girl. I’d never.”

“I’m my _own_ girl,” she reminded him. “And a woman, at that.”

“Yes, yes. Of course.”  His cheeks burned. For once Carver wished he’d had the sense to cultivate a beard to hide behind. 

But Merrill didn’t seem to notice. Her gaze settled somewhere on the rolling horizon, her expression unreadable. “Though I do miss a lot of dirty things, and sometimes I wouldn’t mind hearing them.”

 _Would you now?_ Carver’s pulse stuttered as his mind, unbidden, conjured a helpful list of dirty things he could share with Merrill. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.” 

Silence fell between them. From the phonograph, the singer finished his cheerful bridge and once more began to sing, “ _you heartworm you…”_

She smiled down at the device. “How did they ever think of those words?”

“They are clever, aren’t they?” he replied, glad she’d spoken. 

“You know, I’ve always wondered.” Settling back against the hull, she kicked off her shoes and stretched her legs out before her so that her feet rested inches from Carver’s knees. He couldn’t help but look down. And his brother had been right—those legs _were_ really something. Carver gulped as she continued, “Garrett is the eldest, but you’re the one in charge of the family business. How did that work out?”

Despite himself, he grinned. “Would _you_ put Garrett in charge of anything?”

“Probably not,” she snickered.

Another bolt of warmth shot up his spine. _Focus, Hawke,_ he berated himself. _Thousands of jobs are at stake._

“You know Garrett,” he said, turning his attention back toward the rudder post and away from her impossibly long and slender and tantalizing legs. “He’d always been more interested in girls and wallop games than stock prices and board meetings, and Father indulged him until it was too late to get him interested in anything else.”

She tilted her head like a curious puppy. “And what about you?”

“What about me?”

“Were you interested in stock prices and board meetings?”

“Somebody had to be,” he said with a shrug. “It might as well have been me.”

She frowned. “That’s hardly fair to you, is it? What about what you wanted to do with your life?”

“I wanted to do the right thing,” he said firmly. “I wanted to make sure my family would be alright, taken care of. And after the war, I needed to go somewhere.” 

Her eyes softened, and she wiggled her toes as if she desperately needed something to do. “I suppose we all do things just to make our families happy. The greater good, and all that.”

“I—Yes.” He blinked several times. 

“Even now, you’re off on a boat with your brother’s girlfriend when I’m sure you’d rather be anywhere else—just so that I don’t get lonely. But that’s you, isn’t it? Always thinking of what’s best for everyone.” She looked up at him, then her eyes widened.  “Oh no—I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”

“No,” he said, his throat dry. “No, you haven’t.”

At the same moment, they both realized that the music had stopped. Carver cleared his throat, while Merrill lurched at the phonograph.

“May I play another?” she said quickly.

“Sure. Yeah, sure. Go ahead.”

She fumbled about with the device and put on another record. As the music began to play, Carver immediately recognized it—it had been one of Bethany’s favorite singers. His heart panged like an old war wound.

Then Carver was seized with inspiration: If he couldn’t do flirtatious and charming, then maybe he could pull off brooding and mysterious instead.

“Merrill,” he said, lowering his voice an octave or two. “You mind if we—turn this off?”

“Why? Don’t you like it?”

“I used to like it,” he said, squinting out toward the horizon with as much mystery as he could muster.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Merrill’s face take on a particularly satisfying look of concern. As she took the record out, he adopted his most dire and dramatic expression, the kind of tortured aspect his brother had never been able to master.

“Certain songs bring back certain memories for me too. We have that in common,” she said, hugging her legs into her chest. “Did you love her?”

At the softness in her tone, he felt his stoic expression slip, and he looked her way, only to find her watching him intently, her eyes wide and earnest, greener than the ocean spread out before them. She wasn’t laughing. No, in fact, she seemed genuinely interested in his answer, whatever it might be.

It had been a long time since a woman had looked at him in that way.

Ashamed, Carver closed his eyes. He was no longer sure he could lie to Merrill about this, or whether he even wanted to anymore.

“I’d—rather not talk about it,” he said, suddenly very confused.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“That’s alright,” he murmured, suppressing a shiver. _Sorry, Beth,_ he added silently.

“It’s so strange to think of you falling in love.” When Carver looked at her sharply, Merrill raised her hands in a placating gesture. “I only meant, you never had many girlfriends. Not like Garrett. I always thought you preferred to walk alone.”

“Nobody walks alone from choice,” he said simply. He cast his gaze back out on the horizon, for lack of a better place to land it. 

“I used to watch you, you know.” She sighed, leaning her chin on her knees. “From the window over the garage. Coming and going, always wearing your dark suits and carrying your briefcase and umbrella. I thought you could never belong to anyone. Never care for anyone.”

His breath caught in his throat. She’d … watched him? Like she’d watched his brother?

No—not like his brother. Never like his brother. Women just didn’t look at him the way they looked at Garrett. They swooned over Garrett’s car and his beard and his flirtatious charm. The only way a woman swooned in Carver’s presence was if she’d locked herself in a garage with all the cars running.

That gave him another idea. And this time it couldn’t backfire on him, because the only memory he’d be exploiting would be his own.

“Yes, the cold businessman behind his marble desk, way up in his executive tower,” he began bitterly, and he could no longer tell if it was an act. He grabbed her gaze and did not let go, didn’t even bother to blink. “No emotion, just lyrium in his veins and a dictaphone for a heart.”

Carver’s free hand clenched into a fist, and the scars from Ostagar popped out in fresh relief under the afternoon sun.

“Yet one day, that same cold businessman up in his office opens a window and steps out onto the ledge,” he continued, “and he stands there for three hours wondering if he should jump.”

Merrill swallowed, eyes glistening. “Because of her?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, but—Merrill, do you find it hard to believe someone might want to blot out everything for—“ he struggled for the appropriate word, “sentimental reasons?”

She shook her head sadly. “Oh, I believe it. Do you know what I almost did because of sentimental reasons? I almost—“ She fell silent, her fingers lacing tightly around her legs. “Well, I went all the way to Val Royeaux to blot it out.” She brightened. “I’ve got it! Maybe you should go to Val Royeaux too, Carver.”

He blinked. “To—To Val Royeaux?”

“It helped me a lot. It could help you too! Have you ever been?”

“Orlais isn’t really the place for Fereldans.”

“It’s the Dragon Age, Carver. Don’t be such a snob,” she said. She smiled at him so broadly that little wrinkles creased the vallaslin around her eyes.

But he couldn’t return her smile.

“I was there once,” he said, his jaw tight. “For 35 minutes changing planes. I was on my way to Highever on an oil deal.”

“But Val Royeaux isn’t for changing planes!” she cried. “It’s for changing your outlook. For throwing open the windows and letting in the spring breeze _.”_

Carver felt his cynical, tortured look once more slide into place, and he couldn’t tell if it was something he’d done, or something that had happened all on its own. 

“Val Royeaux is for lovers, Merrill.” He met her eyes again. “Maybe that’s why I stayed only 35 minutes.”

***

By the time they’d arrived back at the Amells’ private dock, dusk had fallen. Merrill felt a little woozy from the sun and salt spray—and a little of the old seasickness that had come back to haunt.  

“Thank you, Carver. I had a lovely time,” she said, dragging her bare toes along the grass as the two of them walked slowly back to the estate. She had the oddest sense of holding onto something that, if she reached the garage, she’d be forced to let go.

“Me too,” he said. The setting sun caught in his hair and cast long shadows over his cheeks, which made his profile even more striking than usual. He really was handsome, in his own way.

Merrill gulped and slid his jacket off her shoulders. It was awkward to do with her shoes dangling in her hands, but she managed it eventually. “Here’s your coat back. I’m glad you remembered to bring one, even if you didn’t need it.”

He took it and bowed with a courtly, old-fashioned air. “A gentleman always comes prepared.”

She offered a playful curtsey. “A lady is grateful for it.” 

“If you’re truly grateful,” he said, eyes shining bright and blue in the gathering dusk, “maybe you’d come out with me again tomorrow.”

She frowned. She’d planned something for tomorrow, hadn’t she? Yes, there was something, and it was important—

Her face fell as she remembered. “I can’t. I’d planned to check in on Garrett tomorrow.”

“If you like,” he said with a shrug that almost looked casual. “But you might want to give him another day. His medication is still making him a bit loopy. Earlier today he was babbling on about short piers and the poetry of shellfish.”

“All the more reason for me to check up on him,” she said firmly. “He needs me.”

“Then, of course, you should go where you’re needed,” he said seriously, “and not just where you’re wanted.”

Merrill’s breath stuttered in her throat. Suddenly she felt she was back on the water, the roll of the waves pitching her back and forth. “I—I suppose I could do both.”

“I’d like that,” he said, his voice equally breathless.

He licked his lips. Merrill found the movement fascinating.

“Until then,” he murmured.

“Until then,” she agreed.

He picked up the phonograph and nodded to her, walking back toward the estate. She watched him go, not moving until he’d disappeared behind the line of trees that walled off the garden from the rest of the world. Then she ambled back to the garage, the shoes in her hands bumping against her thighs.

What a curious day. What a curious man. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d gotten on so easily with someone—even Garrett had been too starstruck by her transformation to offer much in the way of stimulating conversation. (She’d have to remedy that tomorrow, she thought.)

Of course, her rapport with Carver was only natural. They’d all grown up together, even if she’d spent most of her childhood fleeting one brother and throwing up on the other’s shoes.

Still, Merrill wasn’t used to being able to just _talk_ to a man. Usually they wanted something of her, something she could quantify, and satisfy if she saw fit. But Carver—didn’t want anything from her. He just wanted her company.

In fact, she was the one who wanted _him—_ as a diversion to fill the days until Garrett was well, of course.

Of course.

Still—it was curious. Truth be told, she’d always been a little spooked by Carver: his size, his standoffishness. His silence. When he’d left for the service, she’d even felt a little relieved that he’d no longer be looming around every corner to make her feel uncomfortable. Now she felt downright silly for holding on to such needless misconceptions for so long.

Nor could she deny that a small part of her—a small, wicked, _hungry_ part—rather liked how she’d made him stutter, or the look on his face when she’d stretched out her legs.

Garrett made her feel dreamy, as if she were floating among the clouds. But Carver made her feel—

How _did_ he make her feel?

By the time she reached the garage, the sun had finally set behind the mountains. Her mother was still outside washing the Chrysler Aravel, Garrett the puppy sitting politely by her side.

As soon as he spotted her, Garrett ran over to her. Dramatically he flopped himself over on her toes, rolling onto his belly and demanding scratches.

“Hi Garrett,” she said to the puppy, obliging him an idle pet. “Hello, Mother.”

“Welcome back,” said Marethari. “Sebastian has some dinner in the kitchen for you.”

Merrill threw one last longing look back out toward the water. “It’s funny, Mother. I used to be so afraid of him.”

“Of Sebastian?”

“Of Carver.”

Marethari pursed her lips. “Aren’t you hungry, _da’len_?” she said in a vaguely annoyed voice.

“Mother,” Merrill dropped her shoes, and they landed with a loud slap on the concrete, “you’ve driven Carver for many years. What do you know about him?”

“A chauffeur keeps her eyes on the road.” She fixed her disapproving gaze on the car’s windshield. “That doesn’t leave much time for looking in the rearview mirror.”

Merrill smiled wearily and picked up a rag. 

“If you looked a little longer, Mother, you’d find him rather nice.” She dunked the rag into the bucket on the ground and let it draw in more water. “And quite human.”

She shook out the rag and idly scrubbed at a patch of the Aravel that already gleamed. 

“ _You heartworm you,_ ” she mumbled with a dazed smile.


	10. The Lost Cause

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver has a wardrobe malfunction, Marethari nearly kicks her passenger to the curb, and Merrill is appalled to learn that not every Fereldan likes turnips, among other things.

Carver knew a thing or two about lost causes. They had a certain allure, of course—convenience, cleanliness. Clarity. But long ago Carver had learned that to survive, whether the battlefield or the boardroom, you couldn’t let sentimentality guide your hand. You had to know when to give up.

It was a different story, however, when _you_ were the lost cause.

Or, more precisely, your coat.

“Maker,” he growled, fumbling with the buttons of his blazer and jabbing himself hard in the ribs. “Did Orana shrink you?”

The coat didn’t answer.

He sighed in frustration the way some men cursed in foreign languages and ripped the offending piece of clothing from his shoulders. Stomping to his closet, he pulled out another.

Ah, but there was a pale blue stripe to this one—which meant he’d now have to change his pants—and his shoes, too—which meant that for the first time in his life, Carver Hawke was going to be late to work.

 _I simply didn’t think you owned anything that fit._  

“Maker,” he snarled again, ripping off his belt.

He was a fool. A daft, damned fool, who wasted his night dreaming of long legs and pitching waves. Who didn’t know a lost cause when it threw up in his lap.

Him and his plan. Well, it had worked alright. _Too_ well. Now he was up to his eyeballs in feelings; inconvenient, messy _feelings,_ for the girl—woman—lady—he made a furious choking noise as he tugged off his slacks—whatever the hell she was to him.  

Worse, she felt the same about him. He could tell. Maker, the way she’d looked at him at the dock, how she’d leaned forward, lips slightly parted, her eyes catching the reflected moonlight like gems—

He shook his head, dispelling the image. He was acting completely ridiculous.

No. Worse. He was acting like _Garrett._

That had been the point of course: To divert her eye, exchange one brother for another. Keep it all in the family. But the ruse had gone too far, and if he wasn’t careful, this ill-conceived switcheroo would end up costing much more than just a sore ass. Thousands of jobs were at stake. His family’s reputation. Shareholder profits. His brother’s heart.

He pulled up a new pair of slacks. He had to get rid of her. Somehow.

It was the only way.

He picked up the blazer he’d pulled out of the closet, only to realize it was the one he’d brought with him sailing yesterday, the one Merrill had slung around her shoulders. It probably still smelled like the ocean.

It probably still smelled like her.

He glared at it for a moment, then threw it across the room.

***

Marethari was seconds away from telling Orana to run upstairs and break down Carver’s door when he finally showed at the front entrance, rumpled and dour and a full ten minutes late. He offered no explanation for his tardiness, just stomped outside with the frown usually reserved for conversations with Master Garrett. For some reason, Carver’s blazer did not seem to match his slacks.

“Are you feeling alright, messere?” said Marethari as she opened the car door for him.

Grunting in reply, he clambered into the car. Marethari noticed that while he still carried his umbrella and briefcase as usual, there was no morning paper tucked under his arm.

Rattled, she closed the door and slid into the front seat. Then she waited.

And waited.

But Carver, distracted by his thoughts, said nothing. 

“Messere?” she prompted gently. Though she was loathe to do it, she met his eyes in the rear view mirror. “How would you like me to go, messere?”

“Huh?”

“To work?”

“Oh.” Carver shrugged. “Whichever way you think is best. I don’t care.”

Marethari’s eyes widened. “I—I’ll take the parkway then.”

“Fine.” Then Carver returned his attention outside the window.

Marethari fought back her growing horror as she pulled the car out of the drive. She’d never seen Carver so out of sorts, scowling like a soldier fresh off to battle.

And she had a very good idea of who was to blame.

She thought back on last night’s distressing conversation with her daughter: the dreamy looks, the off-key singing. All those _questions_. Merrill hadn’t behaved that way since before Val Royeaux—long before. Yet at least when she’d been pining after Garrett, Merrill had clearly understood that what she wanted was impossible. Now possibility, or the lack of it, didn’t seem to concern her one bit. 

 _She has to make her own choices,_ Marethari reminded herself. _She won’t get anywhere with you telling her what to do._

Still, the whole situation made Marethari want to lock Merrill in their apartment and shove her meals through the mail slot.

When they reached the parkway, Carver seemed to come back to himself. He pushed the button on his seat. Up popped the lyrium car phone.

“Good morning, Mrs. Hendyr,” he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. “First order of business: Call Hubert at the Bone Pit. Tell him I’m unable to attend the Hawke Mining Board Meeting due to a slight hitch in the lyrium merger. Got that?”

Marethari’s eyes narrowed. She glared out at the road, at the cars, at the horizon that shifted before them.

“The market? Oh, yes, the market. How did it open?” Carver frowned down at his free hand, wiggling the scarred fingers as if they pained him. “Right, right. Good. Next order of business. Here’s the itinerary for tonight. I want two tickets to _The Three Year Ache_. Table for two at the Antivan Room after the show.” Marethari ground her teeth as he continued. “Make it a corner table. A dark corner.”

Marethari stifled a growling noise and pointedly did not look in the rear view mirror, though she heard Carver’s startled silence just as clearly as if he’d spoken. To think, she’d trusted him. What a fool she’d been!

Maybe Merrill wasn’t the only one who ought to be locked away.

“I’m just passing the Hightown Market now. Put the coffee on in ten minutes. And Mrs. Hendyr? Make it strong.” He hung up the phone and reached on the seat next to him for the morning paper, before realizing he hadn’t brought it with him. His scowl deepened. “Sabrae. I’ll be needing you tonight.”

“Yes, messere,” she grumbled.

“I’m taking Merrill out again.”

 “Yes, messere.”

“Can you have her at my office at 7 o’ clock?”

A vein on the side of her neck popped. “Yes, messere.”

Carver leaned forward in his seat. “Is something the matter, Sabrae?”

It was a miracle worthy of the Creators that Marethari managed to force out any words through her clenched jaw. “If you’re going to take my daughter out on these, these— _dates,_ ” she seethed, meeting his gaze in the rear view mirror, “I would very much prefer that you dispense with my services. It makes for a rather awkward situation.”

“Oh,” said Carver, relaxing back into his seat. “I see. That never occurred to me. I’m sorry.”

“It’s just—it’s just not right, messere,” she continued, needing to explain, needing to see that ghost of smile vanish from his face. Needing everything to go back to the way it was. “I like to think of life as an Aravel. Though we all drive together, we must remember our places. There’s a front seat and a back seat and a window in between.”

“Sabrae, I never realized it before,” Carver chuckled, “but you’re sort of a snob.”

She nodded gravely. “Yes, messere.”

“Fine. Have her check one of the other cars and drive in herself.” He scratched his chin, letting the fingers slowly graze over his bare cheeks. In the low-slanted morning light, he looked more like his elder brother than ever before. “In fact, have her take Garrett’s car. The Coupe.”

“Thank you, messere.” Marethari sighed and adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, flexing out the tension in her fingers. “I must be honest with you, messere. I find this whole business terribly worrisome. First Master Garrett, now you. I wish Merrill had stayed in Val Royeaux.”

“So do I,” muttered Carver. 

Marethari blinked. If there was anything she’d hoped or expected to hear – that was _not_ it. “May I ask, messere,” she said carefully, “what exactly _are_ your intentions towards my daughter?”

“My intentions?” Carver’s face took on an almost grizzled look, all hard angles and sharp lines. Mostly to himself, he repeated, “What _are_ my intentions?”

“Exactly,” said Marethari.

“Nothing reprehensible, I assure you.” He pursed his lips and appeared to come to a decision. “Just what’s best for everyone.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“With your permission, Sabrae,” he said, his tone as dry as paper sliding across a desk, “I’d like to ship your daughter back to Val Royeaux. Or try to, at least.”

She met Carver’s eyes in the rearview mirror. He looked tired and hard and determined, like he did in the first few days after he’d come home from the war. “You are, messere? But I thought—“

As she spoke, Carver frowned. Marethari had the brief, violent urge to slam on the brakes and make her employer walk the rest of the way to the office.

"—Nevermind,” she finished. “May I ask how, messere?”

“First class, of course.”

Marethari resumed glaring at the road. 

“Now, don’t worry about money,” he began.

“It’s not money I’m worried about; it’s Merrill, messere. I just don’t want her to get hurt.”

“I’ll be as gentle as I can,” he assured. 

“I hope so, messere.” Carver then busied himself with his briefcase, settling it into a more accommodating spot, and Marethari knew that was his signal to her that the conversation was meant to be finished. But in a rare act of defiance, she kept talking anyway, for she needed to make him understand. Merrill’s happiness was at stake. “Be kind, messere. She’s not mean-spirited. She’s just a displaced person. She doesn’t belong in a mansion, but then again she doesn’t belong above a garage either.”

“Few of us do,” said Carver.

Marethari frowned. “Curious words coming from an Amell.”

“I wasn’t always one,” he muttered. “I get it, Sabrae. Of all people I get it, I assure you.”

“With deepest respect, messere, I don’t think you can.” She changed lanes so that she wouldn’t have to meet his questioning gaze in the mirror. “Merrill just doesn’t have the same opportunities you do.”

“No, she has different ones,” he said, his face grave. “Choices I never had available, choices I never had to make. We all live with our limitations.”

“Yet somehow the rest of the world makes it all fit.”

“Or are made to, by circumstance. It really would be much simpler if life were an Aravel, as you say.” He sighed again, a heavy thing that seemed to come not from his throat but the road below them both. “But I wonder if it isn’t more like a sailboat—and a sinking one at that.”

***

Shortly after noon, Merrill put on her prettiest cowl and tightest dress and called on Garrett. He’d been moved out to the veranda to overlook the garden and recover his strength, and if there were a grander spot in all of Thedas to convalesce, Merrill didn’t know it.

But when she found him, sagging bonelessly in what appeared to be a hammock, he did not seem cheered, neither by the fresh air nor the colorful garden flowers. Instead he flicked at the top of a small, silver lighter, intently watching as the lid clicked open and closed.

“Isn’t that a shiny thing,” she said, infusing as much cheer into her voice as possible. “Wherever did you get it?”

“Darling!” cried Garrett. His hand closed around the lighter, and he pocketed it. Then he attempted to extract himself from the hammock, which swayed dangerously and threatened to spill its passenger on the porch. “You came! Oh, I knew you would!”

“Stop, stop!” Dashing to his side, she stilled the hammock with both hands. “Don’t trouble yourself to get up.”

He stopped struggling immediately, and the hammock swung to a stop. Then he threw his arms open wide, beaming proudly. “Do you like it? It’s a lyrium hammock. Carver made it for me.”

“That’s very sweet of him,” she agreed. She was impressed: She’d had no idea Carver was so handy, or so clever. “It looks comfortable.”

“It seats two,” said Garrett, waggling his eyebrows.

“Oh, er, that’s nice,” she replied, a not-so-small part of her wondering how he knew that. “But I think I’d prefer to sit on something a bit more solid.” She dragged a chair from nearby to his side. 

When she was settled, he placed his hands over his heart and sighed like an Orlesian poet. “Oh darling, you’re the very picture of perfection on my porch.”

“Thank you,” she said. At the compliment her stomach twisted, and she realized she must be nervous. Yes. Nervous. That was it. “Are you feeling any better?”

“I had worse in the wallop leagues,” he said, waving his hand with the nonchalance born from experience. “I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt, but I’ll be better soon. Then we’ll be off, just the two of us. I promise.”

Garrett’s smile was, as it had always been, infectious and reassuring in equal measure. Merrill could not imagine herself ever growing tired of it.

“Here,” she said, grinning back. She passed him a small cloth bundle. “I made you lunch.”

“My favorite!” he cried.

She cocked an eyebrow. “But you don’t even know what I’ve brought yet.”

“It doesn’t matter, darling. If you made it, I know it’ll be my favorite.”

She shrugged as Garrett proceeded to unwrap his bundle like a child tearing into his Feastday presents. When he saw what was inside, however, his face fell, though he did his best to hide it.

“What’s wrong? They’re not cold, are they? They should still be warm, I just made them.” At Garrett’s continued silence, she began to worry at her bottom lip with her teeth. “Don’t you like turnip cakes?”

“I hate to tell you this, but not particularly, no.” He looked up at her and his teeth flashed, white and dazzling, against his dark beard.

“But they’re Fereldan,” she said.

“And so am I,” he conceded. “But not to worry, my dear. We’ll have a lifetime to learn each other’s likes and dislikes, won’t we?”

“I suppose,” she agreed, though she’d never before heard of a Fereldan who didn’t like turnip cakes. If it had been anybody else sitting before her, she was sure she would’ve been terribly disappointed.

“Let’s start right now.” He set aside the bundle, and gave her such an eager and earnest look that Merrill couldn’t help but start to feel the same. “What’s your favorite food?”

“Soufflés,” she said at once, remembering the Arishok. “They hold lots of sentimental value for me.”

“Ugh, I hate eggs,” replied Garrett. He made a face, and Merrill’s heart sank. “What else?”

“Well—“ She brought a finger to her lips and thought a moment. “They used to sell these sweet bean pies in the harbor of Val Royeaux. You can’t get them here. But they were in the shape of little octopuses. They were so cute, with little tentacles and tiny googly eyes looking up at you—“

At the sight of Garrett’s nauseated expression, she trailed off. Her belly twisted unpleasantly once more. “Of course, it doesn’t have to be bean pies,” she added quickly. “What’s _your_ favorite food? Tell me what it is, and I’ll learn how to cook it for you.”

Garrett’s eyes sparkled. “I do love a good roast pig. With the meat sliced nice and lean and sizzling hot.”

“Oh goodness. I can’t eat pig,” she said weakly. “They’re too cute, with their snouts and those wee curly tails.”

“A cook who doesn’t eat pig!” He looked scandalized.

“Creators, no! It was bad enough having to cook them for exams. I cried the entire time.” She shook her head sadly, remembering.

“What about chicken?”

“Too cuddly.”

“Fish?”

She thought of her goldfish, Griffon. “Too swimmy.”

Garrett frowned. “Cheese?”

“Cheese!” She clapped her hands together triumphantly. _Finally,_ something that hadn’t once been alive and also adorable. “Yes, I do rather like cheese. And mushrooms?”

Garrett grinned. “Exactly so. The button ones are my favorites.”

“They are rather cute,” she agreed, even though she preferred chanterelles. She thought it a small concession to make in favor of their future happiness.

“Great, then it’s settled,” he proclaimed, folding his hands behind his head. He lounged with the ease of a monarch at court. “We’ll eat cheese and button mushrooms every night. Like true Fereldans.”

“But not turnips,” she muttered.

He laughed. “No, not turnips.”

At the back of her mind, however, guilt still nagged. Not only was she his lover, but she was a professional cook; it was her job – no, her _duty_ – to know and satisfy his palate. How could she have misgauged his appetites so badly?  

Perhaps sensing Merrill’s frustration, Garrett reached for her hand and took it in his. “Now, now. Cheer up, darling. So we don’t care for the same food! It’s only a little setback. Tell me more about yourself. Tell me about your time in Orlais.”

She shrugged, fighting back the lump in her throat. “What would you like to hear?”

“Well, what did you do in your free time?” He affected a stern look, though his eyes continued to dance as if he were about to tell the funniest joke. “Were there any men in your past I ought to be jealous of?”

“No,” she answered honestly. She thought about mentioning the Captain, but she still felt rattled by their conversation about food, the words died in her throat. Some things, she decided, Garrett just didn’t need to know. “Mostly it was just a lot of cooking and studying.”

“Good,” he said firmly. “You know, I was in Val Royeaux for a few wallop tournaments. Did you ever go to The Blooming Rose?”

“No—what was that?”

“Ah, now that I think of it, it’s probably better you didn’t go there,” he replied with a private chuckle that did nothing to settle Merrill’s increasing unease. “What about Boermor’s Track? Did you ever see the nug races?”

“Of course not!” She recoiled, turning as pale as the poor hairless creatures forced to chase each other around the dirt. “It’s a cruel, barbaric sport.”

Garrett cocked his head, scratching at his beard thoughtfully. “Is it? The nugs didn’t seem to mind. And it was all the rage in the alienage when I was last there.”  

“Well,” she said stiffly. “I wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“But didn’t you stay in the alienage?”

“Just because I’m an elf and a chauffeur’s daughter doesn’t mean I lived in the slums,” she said, tilting her chin upward.

“Of course, darling. Ssh, I didn’t mean anything by it.” He took her hand in his and stroked it gently, the fingers warm on the backs of hers, and Merrill allowed herself to be somewhat mollified.  “Did you spend any time there?”

“Not much,” she said. Shame, hot and surprising, pricked at her cheeks, as for the first time she realized she’d spent two years studying elven cooking traditions but hadn’t once visited the world’s largest alienage. It had cost her something to realize that, something she wasn’t sure Garrett would understand. But, she thought, maybe Carver might. “I—had a friend, and she took me other places instead.”

“Where?”

“Oh you know. The opera. History museums.” She smiled fondly, letting the memories root her back in something solid, something pleasant. “Once we went to a masquerade ball at a nobleman’s private estate. He had a lovely collection of Arlathan-era vases. You should have seen the glazed etching on their shoulders and bodies. Truly exceptional work.”

“Oh,” said Garrett in the tone usually used to console someone on the death of their mother. “I’m sorry I missed it.”

Merrill, keenly aware of his sudden awkwardness, felt her cheeks burn. A fraught silence fell between them, as she desperately tried to come up with something to say that wouldn’t bore her paramour to tears. 

A flock of starlings flew past the veranda, chirping happily to each other. They made so much noise, in fact, that neither Merrill nor Garrett noticed that Anders had appeared beside them. How long he’d been there, Merrill had no idea.

“Your lunch, Master Amell,” said Anders with a faint smile toying at his lips. He placed a small tray of food by Garrett’s side, as well as a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses. Neither man seemed particularly interested in looking at the other; indeed, thought Merrill, they appeared to resent being forced to even share the same air for breath.

“Thank you, Anders,” said Garrett primly.

“Miss Sabrae,” said Anders, offering her a slight bow and an appraising glance. Then, eyes gleaming in triumph, he cleared away the turnip cakes that Merrill had brought and held out the muslin cloth she’d used to transport them. “Here’s your handkerchief.”

“Oh,” she stammered, eyes flicking from the soiled cloth back to Garrett. “Thank you, Anders, but that’s—that’s not—“

“Why don’t I just leave it for you by the servant’s entrance,” he continued crisply, then left the veranda without another word.

Garrett waited until the door had closed behind Anders to tuck into the lunch he’d brought: tiny roast pork sandwiches with the crusts cut off. Exactly what he’d wanted all along, Merrill thought glumly. She sighed and poured herself and Garrett each a glass of tea.

Wrapping her fingers tightly around the glass, she brought the cool liquid to her lips. “This tea is nice, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” He sipped his glass daintily. “Yes it is.”

“I do like tea,” she added, needing to say something to fill the space between them.

“So do I,” said Garrett, his eyes somewhere on the horizon. “Always so cool and refreshing.” 

“I like it when it’s hot too. It warms your hands so nicely.”

“Indeed,” he agreed. 

Merrill could take it no longer. This whole tryst hadn’t gone anywhere close to how she’d imagined, and she wasn’t quite sure what to think of it or him or the two of them right now. All she knew was that she needed to get out—and fast. She rose to her feet.

“I’d better go and let you eat in peace,” she said.

“Must you? We hadn’t even gotten to talking about lukewarm tea yet.” He grinned widely, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

She offered him a feeble chuckle.

“You have to concentrate on recovering your strength. And I have to get ready for tonight. Carver’s taking me out again.” Merrill did not add that they weren’t scheduled to meet for another six hours. “We’re seeing _The Three Year Ache._ ”

“I couldn’t have picked a better show,” said Garrett. “What a brother!”

She thought of Carver in his fur-lined vest, the sea spray tousling his dark hair, and her pulse disobediently fluttered. “Indeed.” 

Garrett reached for another sandwich. “I hope he’s not boring you too deeply.”

“No. Quite the opposite, in fact. We had a good time yesterday. He’s a nice man, when he wants to be.” She felt like she ought to say more on the subject of Carver; like there was more explanation she owed Garrett, or perhaps herself. But again, she found she couldn’t make the words come. She just wanted to leave.

“Not half as lovely as you, I’m sure,” replied Garrett.

Merrill hummed noncommittally, and said, “I really should go.”

But as she turned to leave, she had a sudden thought and wheeled back to face him. “Garrett—what do you know about Carver’s girlfriends?”

“Only that they’re few in number, and mostly made up,” he laughed.

She rolled her eyes. Sibling rivalry always seemed to rear its head at the worst times. “You know what I mean. Was there any girl in particular? Any special one?”

Garrett frowned, thinking. “Not that I know of. He always sort of kept to himself, especially after Beth died. You were the only girl I ever really saw him talk to.”

“Oh,” she said. Her heart did a funny little leap, though she wasn’t entirely sure why. “Interesting.”

“It is? I can’t see how.” He cocked his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason,” she said, shaking her head. And it was almost true, for there was no reason she should ask, none that she could put her finger on – just the inexplicable desire to know something, without knowing why. “I’ll see you soon.”

“Until then, my pet,” he sighed. He reached out his hand for hers with the dramatic flair befitting a storybook prince, though, stretched out in the hammock as he was, the effect was somewhat diminished.

“Uh, yes.” She took his hand and patted it gently and tried not to worry. “Until then.”


	11. The Shared Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the show, Merrill gives Carver a gift and learns that some impulses are better off not followed. Or are they?

“You really should try this,” Merrill said to Carver as the swivel chair slowed and came to a stop.

“Don’t tell anybody,” he replied with a conspiratorial grin, “but I already have.”

“I knew it!” He swum in her vision, like a giant goldfish in a tuxedo. “Carver Hawke, there’s a rebel in you yet.”

He chuckled, and a flash of triumph, warm and electric, shot up Merrill’s spine. She’d done that. She’d made him laugh, brought a smile to a face that usually seemed cut from Frostback stone. The accomplishment hadn’t even been all that difficult, certainly easier than grilling a turnip cake or coaxing a soufflé to its proper rise. She wondered why she hadn’t bothered to try it more in the past.

Carver had such a nice smile, after all. The world really could stand to see more of it.

But that was a thought Merrill wasn’t yet ready to examine closely—just having it was bad enough, she was beginning to suspect—so with one bare foot she kicked off the plush carpet and sent the chair once more spinning round and round.

As she spun, Carver’s office blurred into long smears of light and dark: no lines, no boundaries, just colors and movement. It was almost like being trapped in one of those giant paintings she’d seen in Val Royeaux, the ones made by splashing drum after drum of brightly-colored paint on the canvases. She felt joyously adrift, the massive, Carver-tinted blob her only anchor amid the chaos.

When the chair stopped again, she staggered to her feet and placed her hands on the boardroom table to steady herself.

“Order, order!” she cried. “Order in the court!” She slammed one silk-gloved fist on the table.

“Um,” Carver said.

“The meeting of this board of directors of Hawke Industries will now come to order,” she proclaimed. “As Chairman, I’d like to say at the outset,” she sagged down onto the table with a satisfied smile, “I’m terribly dizzy.”

“Meeting adjourned.” Eyes twinkling, he walked over from the office’s mini-kitchen with two drinks in hand. “Here’s your daiquiri, Madame Chairman.”

She rolled herself off the table. For a moment, she did nothing more than stand and breathe in and out, waiting for her still-pitching vision to right itself. “I think your office is grand, Carver, just grand. Has Garrett got an office like this?”

“Something like it,” he admitted. “Only larger.”

She blinked. Carver’s office was already bigger than her whole apartment. “ _Larger?”_

“Yes, but instead of a desk, he has a miniature wallop pitch. Please, Merrill,” he held out the glass, “before my fingers get frostbitten.”

“Oh! That reminds me!” She grabbed her drink and set it down on the table, then dashed over to her purse. From it, she extracted a crumpled ball of fabric, which she held out to him. “Here.”

He cocked his head. “What’s this?”

“Take it,” she prompted, giving it an insistent little shake. 

With a crooked smile he obliged. He unrolled the ball of fabric, then squinted at it. “Gloves?”

She nodded. “I saw them in Lowtown this afternoon while getting my dress steamed.” She waved at him, barely able to contain her excitement. “Go on. Try them on.”

Carver’s expression of surprise, wide-eyed and genuine, suited him nicely, decided Merrill. She was glad he didn’t keep a beard like his brother, so that she could enjoy the look in all its splendor.

Setting his drink down, he slipped one of the gloves onto his hand. It fit perfectly.

Merrill squealed and clapped her hands together. “Oh, I knew it! I knew they would fit! They were made for Qunari, you see. Do you like them?”

“I do. I like them very much.” Staring down at his hand, Carver flexed his fingers one by one, testing the fit. He nodded in clear approval. “But why?”

“Because you needed something that fit you properly for once. And with winter coming on, I bet you have the worst time finding gloves, don’t you?” Encouraged by his dumbfounded nod, she continued, “Those are important fingers! The fate of the Free Marches depends on those fingers—or at least the fate of its stock markets.”

He blushed. He actually _blushed._ To think, Carver Hawke, the marble statue, and she’d made him blush like a schoolboy! Merrill felt just as pleased with herself as she was the first time she’d managed to crack an egg straight into a bowl. 

She knew then that she’d made the right decision in buying them. Oh, she’d hemmed and hawed at the purchase counter of course, but in the end, she’d followed her instinct, and it hadn’t led her astray.  _Always follow an impulse,_ the Captain used to tell her, _especially a terrible one._

“That—that’s very thoughtful of you,” he said in a low, raw voice. “Thank you, Merrill.”

When he whispered her name like that, as if he were sharing a secret, her belly did a funny little flop that she wasn’t sure she liked. She’d have to get him to do it again, just to be sure. “You’re welcome.”

Picking up her drink, she sucked on the straw hard, hoping the sweet ice crystals might dissipate the sudden heat developing under her skin. It almost worked too, until she caught a glimpse of Carver’s eyes, keen and hungry, on her like the press of skin in the dark.

Garrett had never looked at her like that before.

Or if he had, she’d never had quite this reaction.  

The knowledge only served to fan the flame brighter, but now it was tainted, ruined by a sharp stab of fear deep in her gut. Maybe she shouldn’t have bought Carver the gloves after all.

Some distance between them was in order, she decided, and she began to take a turn around Carver’s office slowly, carefully, breathing deeply to regain her calm.

 _Don’t be such a child_ , she reminded herself in a voice that sounded very much like Mother’s. _You already have what you want, what you’ve always wanted. Who you’ve always wanted._

After a good scolding she felt better, and she took to peering at Carver’s belongings as if she were back among the artifacts of the Val Royeaux museums. Meanwhile Carver stood in the center of the room, rooted to the spot, the centerpiece of his own collection.

Hanging up were the usual diplomas and paintings, but by his desk in a patch of wall that saw no sun, Merrill noticed a small metallic frame. She squinted at it. “Look at that—a medal!”

“It’s nothing,” said Carver weakly.

“It’s not nothing,” she insisted. “Garrett doesn’t have a medal, only trophies.”

“I’m sure he has a medal-shaped trophy somewhere,” he muttered.

“‘For honored service to the Queen of Ferelden’,” she read from the plaque beneath it. Carver shifted on his feet uncomfortably. “Creators, how fancy!”

Except for the Captain, who was a Captain in name only, the only soldiers Merrill had ever known were the ones in her father’s storybooks: the hunters and hoplites who’d protected ancient Arlathan from the ravages of the human horde. But they’d all died so long ago that it was hard to imagine they’d ever existed at all.

Carver was different. Carver was undeniably real, as solid and firm as the earth beneath one’s feet. Compared to him, the old cartoons seemed flat, even dull.  

For the first time, she wondered what those old soldiers must have really looked like. Had they all been as solid as he? Marble-faced men with soft smiles and too big hands, forced to grow up before their time?

At the sudden image of Carver in a short elven toga, she bit back a smile. “What did you get your medal for?” she asked.

“I was in the vanguard at Ostagar,” he replied.

“Ostagar!” She gasped. Suddenly she felt terribly guilty for ever having been happy he’d enlisted. “I knew you were in the service—but I had no idea you went _there._ It’s a miracle you survived.”

He shrugged.

“I don’t know why I even keep the blasted thing, to be honest.” he said, fingers playing with the stem of his glass. He refused to look at either her or the medal. “It was a bungled operation from start to finish.”

“Yet you made it back in one piece,” she offered. “That must be something worth remembering.”

“Maybe,” he said, still without looking at her. “Is it?”

Merrill inhaled deeply through her nose and considered her words carefully.  Carver had been present at a massacre—not just present, but survived it, when by all accounts thousands, even hundreds of thousands, of his fellows had not. The scars that must leave on a person, she thought; the debt it must raise, unable ever to be repaid.

“The past is important, to you, to all of us,” she said gently. “We must know it and remember it to move forward.”

He hummed, a soft dry sound that could mean many things. She took it as her cue to move on, drifting toward his desk and the table beside it, where a long row of devices had been laid: the Dictaphone, the radio receiver, the ticker tape machine. She ran her fingers along them, letting them linger as if she’d dipped her hand over the side of a boat to trail in the wake.

“Look at all these gadgets,” she murmured. “Just imagine: You press a button, and factories go up. Or you pick up the telephone, and a hundred tankers set out for Antiva. Or you switch on the Dictaphone and say, ‘Mrs. Hendyr, buy all of Denerim and move it to Amaranthine.’”

She looked back at Carver, who seemed much more relaxed now that they’d ceased talking about matters of war and survival. There was even the faint promise of a smile toying at his lips. She took that as encouragement to continue.

“So, tell me, Chairman Hawke.” She put her hands on her hips. “How _did_ you get so good at businessing?”

He blinked. “…Businessing?”

“You know, all of this.” She gestured at the desk and surrounding gadgets. “It looks tricky. Was it hard to learn?”

“It took some practice,” he admitted, puffing out his chest a little.

“Well, it’s paid off. You must be the best businesser in Kirkwall by now.”

“Merrill—“ There it was again: Her name, in _that_ voice, the low, intimate one that made her belly wiggle and flop over like a mabari demanding pets. She still wasn’t sure she liked it so much as she wanted – no, _needed –_ for him to say it again.

But maybe not for him to do so with that particular expression; Creators, it was as if she’d stuck a nug down his pants.

“I’ve said something wrong again, haven’t I?” She looked down at her drink to hide the flush creeping on her cheeks. “Maybe I’ll just stop talking.”

“N-no.” He cleared his throat. “That’s not what—It’s just, well, what I have is a small knack anyone can learn, like whistling or juggling oranges. What you do is much harder.”

“Me?” She laughed. “All I can do is cook!”

“Yes,” he said emphatically. “You take raw things and transform them into delicious food. Something that doesn’t just keep people alive, but makes them happy, brings them joy. That’s real magic.”

She bit her lip and looked away, warmth blooming through her at the praise. She’d never really thought about it like that, or about how her skills, so hard-fought and well-earned, might be perceived and appreciated by someone else—at least by someone who wasn’t a servant.

Then again, _she_ wasn’t a servant either, nor had she ever been. And for the first time in her life, being here with Carver, she actually felt like it might be true, like she hadn’t anything in the world to prove. 

“I suppose if I drop an egg, it does make a similar mess,” she admitted.

“I’d love to eat something you cooked sometime,” he said. Then he faltered, fidgeting. “If, um, you’d like to, that is. Of course.”

“I’d love to,” she replied, and she was surprised to realize she meant it with all her heart.

Abruptly she turned away from him, ashamed at herself, at this conversation. It was going all wrong, just as it had with Garrett earlier.

Except—it wasn’t going like how it had with Garrett. Not even a little. Talking to Garrett had been an awkward and fraught affair, one that had left her feeling eleven inches tall. But talking with Carver made her feel like an unmoored sailboat, unable to keep from being swept away by the tide.

She couldn’t tell which was worse.

Wanting an excuse to not look at him, she drifted over to the window and looked down at the city below. Spread before her the financial district of Kirkwall was settling itself to sleep, the streetlights and car lamps twinkling like little stars. In the distance, the Amaranthine Ocean sparkled, set aflame with the last rays of the setting sun. 

“What a beautiful view,” she observed. Sunsets were a safe, neutral topic, she assured herself. There was no opportunity for foolishness when discussing a sunset. 

“It’s not half as impressive as the ones you’re used to, I’m sure,” said Carver. He walked to her side and squinted out at the city. As he neared, every rebellious nerve on the side of her nearest him came alive. 

“It does remind me a little of–“ She looked down at her drink and smiled. “Well, I was about to say ‘ _home’,_ but Val Royeaux isn’t home, is it? It’s just where I lived for two years.”

“That can be home, if you’d like it to be,” he said, turning to face her. “It’s as good a place as any.”

She shook her head. “My home is here, in my little apartment above the garage.”

“I wonder,” he murmured.

“How do you mean?”

“Where _do_ you belong, Merrill?” His eyes, blue as a summer sky, caught hers. “Where do any of us belong? I used to think I knew. But now—now I’m not so sure.”

She squinted up at him, confused, but his face was unreadable. “What exactly are you saying?”

Carver hesitated, then took both their glasses in his hands and set them aside. As he did, his fingers brushed hers, just as they had on the tennis court a few days prior. This time, however, he didn’t flinch.

But she did.

“Merrill,“ he began. Her belly flopped again, and it didn’t stop flopping when he licked his lips and looked down at his feet, seeming to lose his nerve about whatever he’d planned to do or say next. To see Carver so muddled on her account was almost intoxicating; it was a good thing, she thought, that he had no idea the effect he was having on her. 

“Yes, Carver?” she choked out. _Stop it, da’len. You already have what you want._

“Can you keep a secret?” Without waiting for her answer, he turned back toward the window and pointed out at the harbor. “Look out there. Uptown. Can you see the Orlesian Line pier?”

With his arm raised, a faint whiff of his cologne wafted her way. Her skin tingled insubordinately, and she swallowed around the sudden dryness in her throat. “Yes.”

“See the boat at the dock? That’s _L’Éléphant Libéré_. It sails on Thursday.” Carver sucked in a deep breath and closed his eyes, as if pained by whatever he was about to say next. “I’m going to be on it.”

It took her a moment for his words to pierce the haze of her overstimulated senses. But eventually they managed, and when they did, she couldn’t believe what she’d heard. Carver. Going to Val Royeaux. Carver. _Val Royeaux._ “You are?”

“I am,” he said. A faint line appeared between his brows. “I’m sick of pushing buttons. I’m sick of secretaries. I’m sick of this office.” Finally he opened his eyes, bright and beautiful and so very, very blue. “I’m breaking out of here, Merrill. I’m running away.”

“Good for you,” she cried and, without thinking, flung her arms around him. 

For a brief moment, he simply stood there, stiff and unresponsive. Then he folded his arms around her waist and pressed her close, until every inch of her body was in contact with his.

Somehow he smelled different today than he had on the tennis courts: sweeter, maybe, like wet grass or the pavement just after a hot summer’s rain. Like the earth and sky itself.

It was fitting, she decided, for hugging Carver was like climbing a tree, one of those vast oaks that grew firm and broad on the edge of the Amell gardens. His massive arms cradled her like boughs, and she knew that no matter how long or tightly she clung to him, she’d never be in any danger of falling.

She should let go. She really should let go.

Instead she pulled him tighter.

A bit of her hair fell into her eyes. She shook her head to rid herself of it, and her lips, by chance, brushed against his neck. He shuddered, fingers tightening against the small of her back, and it filled with the most exquisite combination of control and powerlessness she’d ever felt.

“It’s all for you,” he whispered, his breath a hot puff against her bare shoulder. “All your fault, I mean. I’ve been thinking about Val Royeaux ever since you mentioned it.”

“It’ll make a new person out of you. I guarantee it.” On his neck was the lingering scent of his shaving cream and soap, and something else indefinable, something uniquely _him._ She had the abrupt, nearly irresistible urge to lick him. “Oh, Carver, I can’t believe you’re going! I’m so glad—or am I?”

She hadn’t realized she’d said that last part, instead of just thinking it, until Carver stiffened and pulled back so that he could look at her.

Slowly, as if not to startle her, he raised a hand and brushed another wayward lock of hair out of her eyes. His fingertips lingered along her cheek, light as a feather, tracing the line of her vallaslin as it curved down and along her jaw.

Her heart raced. His mouth was so close. So inviting. It’d be nothing at all to close the gap between them, to place her lips on his and just—see what would happen.

She desperately wanted to see what would happen.

She leaned closer.

Behind them, the door opened.

Startled, embarrassed, _terrified,_ Merrill shoved Carver away so hard he staggered back a step. In unison, they looked toward the source of the noise. It was Mrs. Hendyr.

“It’s 7:35, Mister Hawke,” she said. She looked at them in the smug way mothers sometimes did when they caught you being cheeky to someone they didn’t like. “You don’t want to be late for your dinner reservation, do you?”

“Yes. Yes, of course,” said Carver, slightly out of breath. “Ready, Merrill?”

“ _Tout suite,_ ” she said, still dazed. The proper course of action seemed to be to ignore Mrs. Hendyr and Carver and everything at all until the room stopped spinning around her. So she smoothed her skirt, grabbed her purse and her shoes, and lifted her chin as high as was proper. “As they say in Val Royeaux.”

“Of course,” he muttered. “Then let’s go. _Tout suite._ ”

As the pieces fell into place of what had happened and what had _almost_ happened, Merrill wanted nothing more than to dissolve into the floor, sinking down, down, to the deepest pit on earth and never to crawl out again.

What on earth had she been thinking? This was Carver. Garrett’s _brother._ His only brother, in fact, with whom she was sure he’d be none too pleased to find her, the one true love of his life, in such a compromising position.

She’d never been so glad to be interrupted in all her life.

Or was she?

As they walked out of the office together, Carver put on his new gloves and offered her his arm. She regarded it carefully and, ignoring impulse, did not take it.  


	12. The Cliff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver and Merrill have a night on the town, with dinner, theater and dancing. Things head to a precipice. Nothing left to do but leap.

**Dinner**

“And here’s what you do your very first day in Val Royeaux,” said Merrill. She leaned toward Carver, the table’s candlelight dancing in her eyes. “You get lost. Not just a little turned around, mind you, wandering up and down the wrong alleyway or two. But honest-to-Creators _lost._ ”

Chin in hand, Carver nodded. Throughout all of dinner and most of dessert, she’d been like this, chattering away like a lieutenant colonel advising new recruits on their first battle. But Carver was glad to let Merrill talk. Not only did he love the sound of her voice, but after that little mishap in the office, he also desperately needed the chance to collect his thoughts. 

Because every time he closed his eyes, said thoughts melted back into mindless sensations: the weight of her in his arms; the wet press of lips on his neck; the intoxicating smell of hair and breath and skin. And it was driving him _crazy._

_Andraste’s ass._ He’d figured that the Val Royeaux reveal, as false as it was, would make her happy, but he hadn’t expected her to launch herself at him like lyrium rockets had shot off in her feet. Now he almost actually wanted to go to Orlais, just so that she might hurl herself at him like that again. 

Or more.

Oh yes, much more. It didn’t take a CEO to figure out she’d been about to kiss him, a development very favorable for the lyrium merger, very favorable indeed. But what he’d been surprised to learn, and what continued to surprise him even now, was just how _easy_ it all had felt. It wasn’t just that he’d wanted to kiss her back. It was that _not_ kissing her back felt wrong somehow, unnatural, like swearing in a Chantry or praying in a boardroom.

Then Mrs. Hendyr, the old spoilsport, had come in, and that was the end of that. 

But no matter. He could be patient. He had all night to close this export deal. Proceeding further would take some finesse, certainly, but if there was one thing on which Carver prided himself, it was skill thoughtfully applied.

“Now once you’re good and lost,” Merrill continued, bringing her wineglass to her mouth, “you find yourself someone really nice, and the two of you get ice creams. Then together, you walk around the squares and promenades until sunset.” She set her glass down without remembering to drink from it. “The sunset’s very important, because the fading light sets the whole of Val Royeaux aglow, just like a fireplace. It’s all the golden spires, you see.”

The image made Carver smile; in his head he saw not Orlais but Lothering, and how the red-gold of sunset would hit the windmill’s arms such that they seemed set on fire. “But how will I ever find my way again?”

“You’re tall,” she offered. “You could stand on your tiptoes.”

That Merrill thought him the size of a giant made Carver’s stomach go fuzzy and warm, though he couldn’t quite discern why. “Wouldn’t it just be easier to ask for directions?”

“No, you mustn’t,” she answered with a firm shake of her head. “You’ll offend the city! After all, it goes through so much effort to make its streets twisty and exciting. You wouldn’t want the stones to think you’re only interested in one thing.” 

He chuckled. “You speak about Val Royeaux as if it were alive.”

“All cities are alive,” she replied. “And they remember what happens, so you mustn’t be rude to them, especially not on your first day there.”

 “I see,” said Carver gravely. “Actually, no I don’t. This is very confusing.”

“You’ll get the hang of it soon enough. But remember: lost, ice creams, sunset. That’s what’s most important.”

“And someone really nice,” he added.

“Yes, that too.” She glanced down at her wineglass, her fingers toying with the rim. When she looked up again, her smile had vanished, replaced with something much more melancholy. “You’ll be fine. Of course you will.” She hesitated before continuing. “You’re very clever, Carver, and very rich. If you needed to, you could just order yourself a sunset.”

“Sure I could.” Seeing Merrill’s pout, Carver decided it was time to ramp up his efforts and implement some strategic brooding. He spread his palms on the table before him and inspected the scars and graven lines there as if they held deep and closely-guarded secrets. “I can order myself a sunset. I can buy myself an ice cream. That’s easy. But can I find myself someone really nice?”

It was an act. Carver knew it was an act. But at the same time, as the words left his mouth, he knew it wasn’t. Maker, he could barely keep it all straight in his head anymore: what was for show and what wasn’t, what was for Merrill’s benefit and what was for his own.

Carver looked up just as Merrill looked away. Her fingers fell to the tablecloth, where she picked at some invisible crumb left over from dinner. His heart sank.

“That’s not so easy,” he muttered, and finished the rest of his wine. 

**A Show**

Earlier that day, in anticipation of her date—no, her _evening_ with Carver, Merrill had read a review of _The Three Year Ache._ The play, explained the reviewer, had been inspired by a psychological theory stating that in a friendship between two potential romantic partners, a maximum of three years could pass before “the détente of sexual tension would be broken by one or more parties”.  

Merrill had never heard of such a phenomenon. But she was starting to suspect those scientists had wildly overestimated the necessary timeframe and that the real Three Year Ache was closer to a Three-Quarters of An Hour Ache; because forty-five minutes ago, Carver’s pinky had brushed the side of hers and she still hadn’t managed to assuage her battered nerves. 

It might be a lot easier if the offending finger weren’t still lying on the seat cushion between them, a hair’s breadth from hers. Just— _waiting_.

She should just pull her hand back. She should pull her hand back and settle it in her lap, like a good girl. Like a smart girl. But every time she tried, she found she couldn’t: It was as if an invisible string had tied itself around her finger and tugged her back into place.

What would happen if she just tookhis hand in hers already? After all, it wasn’t as if friends didn’t hold hands in public places, right? She and the Captain had held hands plenty of times throughout plenty of shows just like this one.

Then again, Merrill wasn’t sure whether Garrett would approve of a friendship with Carver quite like the one she’d had with the Captain. He’d likely prefer one with a bit less laughter. And nakedness. 

But would she?

Creators, she was being silly. It was just a pinky, not the moon. She was always being so silly about these things. Forever wanting what she didn’t have, what was just out of reach.

Besides, Carver had no idea of the torture he was causing her. He couldn’t. He was too kind inside, too noble and honorable. His taking her out was simply a favor for Garrett, that’s all.

That’s all.

Anyway, soon he’d be gone, off to Val Royeaux, possibly forever, and the whole issue would be moot.

She let out a morose sigh, which attracted Carver’s interest. He leaned over and whispered, “What’s wrong? Not enjoying the play?”

“It needs more oliphants,” she muttered.

He chuckled, a frustratingly hot puff of air tickling her neck. “We’re only in the second act. They could still pull one out for the closing number.”

“You can’t just introduce an oliphant in the third act,” Merrill huffed. She tried to cross her arms to hide the goosepimples blooming on her skin, but the hand nearest Carver’s pinky wouldn’t budge, so she ended up awkwardly rubbing her arm with one hand, as if she’d been punched.

“Why not?”

“Because you _can’t_. Haven’t you ever read any storybooks?” Irritation at Carver’s persistent nearness and the fact that he still hadn’t moved his finger away raised her voice to such high volumes that the ladies in the box next to them volunteered an annoyed shush. Merrill glared at them and stuck out her tongue. Then, turning in her seat toward Carver, she angled herself away from them. “That’s not how stories work.”

Carver grinned at her. Finally, _finally_ , he picked up his hand, putting it to use at scratching his bare cheeks instead. “Ah yes,” he said. “The dreaded Chekov’s Oliphant. If the heroes ride off on an oliphant in the grand finale, then the beast must wave its trunk in the opening number.”

“Exactly,” she said. “Miracles don’t just happen. These things have to have precedent. A history.”

“I see,” he said. “Well, sort of.”

Something on stage attracted Carver’s attention, and Merrill followed his gaze. Down below, the hero was singing about justice, mercy, the plight of the poor refugee. Carver only watched it for a moment before speaking again. 

“If you’re such an expert on stories, Merrill,” he turned back to her with a level gaze that made her insides flutter, “then tell me: how does ours end?”

She gulped. “O—ours?”

“You know.” He gestured at the warm, narrow space between their bodies. “This grand coming together of two unlikely allies, in my brother’s most dire time of need. It’s rather unprecedented, don’t you think?” 

“I imagine it ends with you boarding the boaton Thursday,” she said. The reminder of his impending departure made her feel grumpy all over again. 

“I suppose.” He tapped one finger on his lower lip thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t seem like a very good ending, does it? I mean, how often does the hero just ride off all by his lonesome?” 

“It happens sometimes,” she offered, “when there’s a sequel.”

He cocked his head. “So you’re saying Val Royeaux is my sequel?”

She squinted at him. Carver seemed to be asking many things, all of which seemed important but none of which she could quite make out. “What exactly are you getting at, Carver?”

“Oh nothing. Nothing at all, of course. But if it’s all the same to you,” he eyed her up and down, gaze burning into her and sending tingles down her spine, “I think I might hold out for my third act miracle after all.”

At that, he settled back into his seat. His hand nearest Merrill once more fell back on the seat cushion between them, palm up, open, like an invitation.

She looked down at it as directly as she dared.

More desperately than ever she wanted to pull her hand back. Or she wanted desperately to want desperately to pull her hand back. She couldn’t keep it straight anymore. To not want what she wanted. To want what she once wanted. To never want again. 

On the cushion his thumb fluttered and brushed hers ever so briefly, and Merrill had to close her eyes to restrain herself from launching across the seat and grabbing it and him and everything she desperately wanted not to want. 

**Dancing**

After the show they went to the Antivan Room, a small Hightown club populated by Kirkwall’s most beautiful people dancing to equally beautiful music. On any other night, Merrill might consider herself lucky to be counted among them. But at the moment she was still too emotionally and physically drained to appreciate such grand society. 

What exactly had Carver meant by _third act miracle?_ What had he meant by any of it? What had he meant by staring at her legs on the sailboat, or by holding her so tight in his office she could barely breathe, or, as long as she was counting, by storming into the garage two years ago and saving her from certain death?

_Nothing, da’len. He meant nothing by it._ He was a good man and a good brother, and that was that.

If only she were half as decent as he.

Behind them the band was playing _Je Ne Vous Appelle Pas Un Menteur_. Carver held her close, his cheek against hers as they glided around the dance floor.  Her nose filled with his scent, that comforting smell of the air after a summer storm, which before tonight Merrill had never quite realized just how much she liked. 

“Merrill,” said Carver. He was so near that his voice seemed to spring not from his mouth but from somewhere deep and dark between them. “Do you know this song? I think it’s Orlesian.”

She nodded. The barest hint of stubble scraped pleasantly across her cheek. “It’s one of my favorites. There was a lute player at the bistro below my apartment who used to play it all the time.”

“I don’t know what any of it means. I don’t speak Orlesian,” he admitted with a sigh. “I’m afraid I’ll be completely lost in Val Royeaux. And not the good kind of lost, either.”

She pressed her fingertips more tightly into Carver’s shoulder, as if a physical anchor might stop her stomach from turning over at the thought of him leaving. 

“Don’t worry,” she murmured with more cheer than she felt. “You’ll be fine. You’ll pick it up sooner than you think.”

“Maybe you could help me,” he said. He pulled back from their hold just enough to be able to look her in the eye. “Teach me some words. How do you say in Orlesian, ‘My sister has a yellow pencil’?”

The seriousness of his expression made her smile, despite herself. He was always so earnest, so sincere. She’d miss that about him. “ _Ma soeur a un crayon jaune.”_

He nodded. “And how do you say, my brother has a lovely girl?”

At the compliment, twin flushes of heat bloomed on her cheeks. “ _Mon frère a une belle petit amie_.”

“And how do you say,” he paused ever so briefly, “‘I wish I were my brother?’”

Merrill’s breath caught in her throat. Her cheeks burned hotter than ever, but now there was also a chill that ran down the length of her body, pooling deep within her belly. Her feet lost the rhythm and she didn’t bother to find it again, too distracted by the blue of Carver’s eyes, and the painful thundering of her traitorous heart.

Guilt washed over Carver’s face. Before she could answer him, he tried to pull her back into a dancer’s hold. But she placed her hands on his chest and levered herself backward. No, he couldn’t sweep that away. She wouldn’t let him. She’d let too many things between them be swept away already.

She needed to know if it was just her. To be certain.

“Carver—“ she began.

At that moment, a pair of dancers lost in each other’s eyes wheeled too close and bumped into Merrill, pitching her forward and, somehow, directly into Carver’s mouth. He caught her there as if he’d expected this all along.

For a heartbeat, she froze, eyes wide, lips still half-open to finish her sentence. But then he began to move his mouth against hers, and everything she’d wanted to say or not wanted to say ceased to matter one bit.

His lips were welcoming: warm and soft and not too wet. He tasted of sweet wine and the even sweeter blackberry pudding they’d shared for dessert. Familiar, soothing. Comforting. She let her eyes drift shut as she tentatively she slid her hands along his lapel and, even more tentatively, touched her tongue to his. He answered with a moan so faint, so broken that she felt it more than heard it.

One hand crept up her arm, her shoulder, to cup her neck gently. The feel of him handling her with such care, as if she were something precious or worth savoring, only fanned the heat inside her. She crushed herself closer to him, fingers lacing into the fabric of his jacket.

In her ears her pulse raced, like the drums of an orchestra, carrying a song to its inevitable climax. _This._ She wanted this. All she could ever remember wanting was this. This certainty, this clarity. This single moment, here and now; this simple, perfect relief.

For the first time in her life, Merrill knew exactly where she belonged.

Carver was the first to pull away, eyes burning bright and blue. Briefly one forefinger stroked the thin vallaslin at the line of her jaw, before falling to join the rest of its fellows at her shoulder.

“I see,” he murmured, and he pulled her back for more.


	13. The Invitation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver learns his limits. Merrill sings a song badly. Garrett tells some very unfunny jokes. And what difference does a kiss make? As it turns out: everything.

# Chapter 13: The Invitation

Carver had heard the expression “remove the veil from my eyes” before, but never had he believed it anything more than poetic hyperbole—until now. Kissing Merrill had seared him with new awareness, as if every nerve in his body had lain dormant until this moment and now screamed, awake and alive. The clarity was dazzling, almost painful, far too much for him to process. All he knew was that he craved more. 

Before he could land his lips on hers again, however, Carver felt a soft pressure on the back of his knuckles, as Merrill covered his hand with hers, one finger idly skimming his old battle scars.

It was such a small gesture, but it was enough to bring Carver crashing back into the present, the sounds and sights of the dance floor returning in their usual mundanity. Dully he became aware of more sensations: her other hand fisting in the fabric of his jacket; his arm snug against her back in something dangerously approximating a lover’s embrace. 

He’d kissed her.

He’d almost kissed her again.

In fact, he had very much wanted to keep kissing her, maybe forever. 

He jerked to a stop. Instead of more kisses, he touched his forehead to hers, shutting his eyes and letting out a shaky breath, willing himself to regain control once more.

This had never been part of his plan, because there were some things you just couldn’t lie about. Now this whole situation was going to be messy, and it was all his fault.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, unable to put more than the barest volume behind the words. 

Yet it seemed enough to dispel whatever glamour had fallen over Merrill as well. She pushed him back, gently but firmly, to a polite distance. His hands fell away from her, and Carver sighed in relief. Devoid of her, his arms felt cold and weightless; he wanted desperately to shake them out.

“Sorry,” they both said at the same time. 

“Somebody. They bumped me,” explained Merrill, the syllables tumbling out of her too quickly for Carver to make sense of them. Her cheeks had flushed as red as a tomato. “From behind. A dancer. Well, probably two of them. They come in packs, you know.”

“Of course,” he replied. He swiped his tongue along his lower lip. He could still taste her, Maker, could still feel the weight of her lips and tongue against his. 

“It was an accident,” insisted Merrill. Shuddering violently, she wrapped both arms around herself as if bracing against a bitter wind.

For a moment he did not move, just regarded her. She looked as shaken as he felt. An encouraging sign. Maybe all wasn’t lost. Maybe he could still make this work. In fact, said a calculating voice in the back of his mind, maybe he could turn all this to his advantage.

“Are you cold?” he said, reaching toward her.

“No.” Still hugging herself, she backed away. “But I think, maybe, I’ve rather had enough of dancing for tonight.”

He nodded. “Let’s go elsewhere then. Perhaps a walk along the Viscount’s Gardens—“

Closing her eyes, she shook her head. “I think I’d like to just go home.”

He nodded, and offered his most charming smile, the kind he’d seen his brother deploy time and time again. “Then, miss, your chariot awaits.”

As she turned, she gave him an odd look, one he couldn’t quite decipher but which set him ill at ease. They walked together toward the exit. When he lifted his hand to place it on her lower back, she drifted out of his reach once more. 

*******

As Carver drove, the moon hung so low in the sky it was obscured by the tree line, and the air had taken on the brisk chill of the night’s darkest hours. Carver wore his new pair of gloves, while on the passenger seat, Merrill snuggled into her wrap. She’d kicked off her shoes and tucked her bare feet under her, and her cheek lolled on the seat as if embraced by it. She no longer looked unsettled and troubled. In fact, she looked perfectly at ease, here in Garrett’s car.

By now Carver was willing to admit that bothered him.

Cramming _himself_ into the convertible, however, had been no easy task. Garrett’s Coupe didn’t fit his proportions at all: Its carriage was too small for his legs, the leather too soft for his back, the wheel too high for his arms. Neither of them had been able to figure out how to put the top up—Merrill had suggested that perhaps the car had been built without one.

Nor had they been able to figure out how the radio worked, so Merrill had taken to singing for them to pass the time. Carver was glad for it. For the first time between them, conversation had seemed a heavy thing to manage—perhaps because, with each word he spoke, the taste of her grew fainter on his lips.

 “ _Je ne vous appelle pas un menteur,”_ she sang, “ _Seulement ne me mens pas—“_  

Abruptly she fell silent. Carver met her eyes, and the taste of her rushed back into his mouth, sweet and delicious, making his mouth water. “What is it?” 

“Just,” she blinked rapidly and looked away, “Just wondering what you’d look like with a hat.”

“A hat?” He smirked and settled his eyes back on the road. “Why would you be wondering that?”

“You’ll need one in Orlais,” she said, her voice sad or maybe just sleepy. “You’re too rich to go without. So you’ll need to get one before you go. The taller, the better. Maybe something with horns.”

Somehow Carver found it reassuring that, even with all that had passed between them, Merrill could still manage to say something that would muddle him completely. 

“Uh, er, I don’t know.” Despite himself, he smiled. “We Fereldans do look silly in hats, especially ones with horns.”

“But you can’t go without,” she replied. Her voice took on a desperate edge. “It’d be terribly rude. Someone will think you’re trying to start a revolution and will challenge you to a duel.” 

“Over a bare head?”

“Over a lot of things.” She hugged her wrap tighter. “But your clothing says so much about you, especially in Orlais. And since you never bother with anything that fits anyway, you’ll already be risking your life. Oh, and another thing: never a briefcase in Val Royeaux, and never an umbrella. There’s a law.”

Carver sighed. He knew what he needed to do; he knew what he needed to say. Yet it was all so _exhausting_. Why couldn’t he, just once, do what he wanted to do rather than what was needed?

He frowned at himself. Idle fancies never closed a business deal. And as long as there was a need, Carver had to keep going. A soldier’s duty was never done.

“How am I ever going to get along in Val Royeaux without someone like you?” he said. He didn’t have to fake the longing that had crept into his voice. “Who will be there to help me with my Orlesian? Who will be there to pick out the proper hats?”

“Suppose you meet someone on the boat the very first day out,” she replied, voice trembling. “A perfect stranger.”

Carver couldn’t have asked for a better setup than that.  

“I have a better suppose, Merrill.” He inhaled deeply through his nose, steeling himself, and kept his eyes on the road. “Suppose I weren’t a human, and you weren’t an elf. Suppose you weren’t in love with my brother. Suppose I asked you to—“

He made the mistake of looking at her then, and the sight of her wide and hungry eyes made him stop mid-sentence.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Some things you just couldn’t lie about.

“Suppose I’m talking nonsense,” he muttered.

When she didn’t reply, he dared another glance at her. Merrill’s smile had vanished, and she now fisted her hands in her wrap, knotting the thin fabric tightly as if she were going to rip it asunder. “I suppose so.”

Carver swallowed around the sudden thickness in his throat. What was wrong with him? He’d had the perfect opportunity to get her on the boat to Val Royeaux and out of his hair forever, and he’dcompletely blown it, all because she’d actually looked like she’d _wanted_ him to ask.

“Suppose you sing that song again,” he said eventually. “Slowly.”

She started to warble, softly and off-key, and the wind carried her voice away behind them before it could be heard. 

*******

As they came up the drive to the Amell estate, Merrill fell silent, too exhausted to maintain a tune any longer. Creators, but she was tired.  Tired of singing. Tired of dancing. Tired of everything.

But more than that, she was furious with herself. She’d behaved abominably this evening, allowing her traitorous passions—no, her bodily _reactions—_ to cloud her judgment and lead her astray.

Carver was very nice and very nice-looking, no question. But she had no business fussing about with pinkies and Orlesian lessons and questionably accidental kisses. And she especially had no business giving Carver’s not-quite-an-invitation to elope to Val Royeaux as much consideration as she had.

Oh, she wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what he’d been about to offer. And she also knew that in the moment, if he’d actually gone through with it, she would have accepted him. Gladly.

So she was very, very thankful he had not gone through with it.

This was madness. She loved Garrett. _Garrett._ Her prince charming, her moon in the sky. She’d been in love with him all her life. She was in love with him still… even if his brother was easier to talk to, and he made her laugh, and his smile turned her bones turn to jelly. She loved Garrett, and this—this _infatuation—_ no, this _obsession—_ with Carver was making her lose her resolve. She had to remember what she was really here for.

But Creators, when had remembering gotten so confusing? 

Carver pulled up to the garage, and Merrill’s heart sank when she noticed in the driveway a lone figure wrapped in a silk dressing gown.   _Garrett._

“Why hello there, baby,” he cried as the car slowed to a stop. He ran his hand along the gleaming hood. “And hello there too, Merrill.”

Neither Merrill nor Carver laughed, but Garrett didn’t seem to mind; he laughed hard enough for all three of them. 

“Hello, Garrett,” answered Merrill, unable to meet his eyes.

“Glad you made it home alright. You two were gone for so long, I thought you’d eloped. I wouldn’t mind, but not in my car.” Garrett offered another laugh.

Merrill flinched at the sound as if she’d been struck. She might love him, but even she could admit that sometimes, Garrett really was an insensitive ass.

With a gallant bow, he leaned over and opened the door for her. “You two have a good time?”

Merrill glanced over at Carver, who looked back with a smile that didn’t come anywhere close to his eyes. She stepped out of the car carefully, so that no part of her touched Garrett.

“Fine,” she muttered.

“Where did you go?”

“We had dinner, saw _The Three Year Ache,_ then went down to the Antivan Room,” replied Carver. His voice was light, but Merrill swore she could discern an edge to it, one she’d never heard before. Or maybe she was just imagining what she wanted to hear.

Carver picked up her shoes and held them out, as Garrett leaned over to her with a conspiratorial grin and said “Lousy dancer, isn’t he?” 

“Fine,” she said, taking her shoes from Carver gingerly, so that their fingers didn’t brush.

“I bet he slept through half the show and then bent your ears back the rest of the evening with stock splits, corporate structures, property taxes—“

Merrill refused to look at either brother, standing as still and as straight as a tree. “We talked about a lot of things.”

“Garrett.” Carver got out of the car and closed the door with just a touch more force than necessary. “How are you feeling?” 

“Never been better.” Garrett stood close enough that Merrill could smell him; it was the same scent as always, hair oil and brandy and other rich and glamorous things, except tonight it didn’t seem so charming. Merrill leaned herself away from him. “Doc Lirene says she’s so proud of the job, she wants to show it to her class down at Darktown Medical.”

He grinned brightly, but neither Carver nor Merrill smiled back. Garrett looked between them and, sensing the tension, slung his arm around Merrill’s shoulder.

“Sorry, kiddo,” he said to Merrill. “That was insensitive of me. We’re still going to run away together, I haven’t forgotten.”

“No need for apologies,” she acceded, forcing a smile. She tried to think of what Garrett might want to hear. “It was very funny.”

Garrett seemed satisfied by the praise and turned his attention back toward his brother. Merrill let her smile vanish. His arm was heavy and she wished he’d take it back already.

“Say, Carver, while I was lying on that hammock, I got a great idea.” Garrett turned back to Merrill, and she forced her smile back into its place once more. “He thinks I’m an idiot,” he said, rolling his eyes. Merrill nodded in what she hoped was an encouraging manner. “How does this strike you? Lyrium champagne glasses. Just in case! Because they’re hard to break, you see.”

“Brilliant. And as soon as we formulate a lyrium alloy that isn’t poisonous, that’ll be the first thing we do,” said Carver. No, Merrill definitely wasn’t imagining that edge in his voice. She wondered if it had been there every time he’d talked to Garrett, and she’d simply never noticed before. “What else did Dr. Lirene have to say?”

“The stitches come out Thursday.”

The bottom fell out of Merrill’s stomach. But—that was just the day after next. The day Carver was set to sail on his great Orlesian adventure, and leave her life forever.

“Thursday?” repeated Carver, slightly breathless. 

“I’m a fast healer.” Garrett grinned. “So if you two have any long range plans, you might want to cancel them.”

“Oh, nothing long range,” stuttered Carver. “I just thought Merrill might like to see the stock exchange tomorrow. Maybe the foundry in Lowtown.” 

“I—I’d rather not,” she said weakly, leaning back toward Garrett.

“Well then,” said Carver, undeterred. “We’ll just have dinner in town again, and go to another show. Maybe more dancing.”

Panic flaring in her chest, Merrill opened her mouth to refuse, but Garrett cut her off before she could say a word. “Okay, but that’s all, brother.” He wagged a finger at them both, affecting consternation. “Because come Thursday, the first team is taking over.”

“I see,” said Carver levelly.

The phrase, like a secret code of what had happened between them, caught Merrill’s attention. When she looked up, his eyes were already on her, piercing and blue. He held her gaze a long moment, as if trying to ask her something, but she couldn’t figure out what it might be.

Or maybe she knew, and she just didn’t want to answer.

She deliberately looked away.

With a grunt, Carver extracted his briefcase and umbrella from the backseat of the Coupe. “I suppose it’s time for this bareheaded revolutionary to turn in,” he said. “And you’d better crawl back into that hole in your hammock, brother.” He turned to Merrill and bowed. “ _Bonsoir, la belle_.” 

“Good night, Carver,” she replied stiffly.

She couldn’t be sure, but as Carver walked away she thought she heard him quietly hum the first few bars of _Je Ne Vous Appelle Pas Un Menteur._

Merrill watched him go, her gaze lingering on the front door even long after Carver had gone inside. Even now, a not-so-small and infuriating part of her wanted to chase after him, to throw her arms around his neck and never let go.

“Carver’s a little on the dull side,” said Garrett lightly. “But you can’t help liking him.”

Merrill opened her mouth to correct Garrett, but then closed it just as quickly. Her cheeks burned with fury, though directed at whom she couldn’t quite say. 

“Garrett,” she commanded. “Kiss me.” 

He laughed. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

He grabbed her by the elbows and crashed his mouth into hers. His lips were insistent, firm. A little chapped too, likely from the medicines he’d taken. His beard itched at her upper lip. His kiss had none of the gentleness or complexity of kissing Carver. It was a simple, needful thing. Everything she’d imagined it would be.  Everything she’d always wanted.

“Again,” she demanded, when he pulled back for air.

He obliged, and this time, she almost even enjoyed it.

“Good,” she sighed when it was finally done. “That’s better.”

“What’s the matter, darling?” Garrett hadn’t dropped his hands from her arms, and she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to or not; if he did, she feared she might still bolt after Carver. “Are you worried about us? I’m not.” He gave her a cavalier wink. “So there’d be a big stink in the family—who cares?”

“I’m not going to have dinner with Carver tomorrow,” she said firmly. “I don’t want to go out with him anymore.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she swallowed around the tightness in her throat and the stinging in her eyes, “because I want to be near you.”

Garrett smirked, teeth flashing against his beard. “I know how you feel. I know he’s an awful bore. But if Carver wants to take you out, let’s be nice about it, okay? It’s very important. He’s our only ally, don’t you see?”

“No, I don’t,” she said. “I don’t see at all.”

“Without him, Mother will surely cut off my allowance, and then Gamlen will have me shipped off to Hawke Copper in the Abyssal Reach, and we don’t want that, do we?”

“Hold me close, Garrett.”

He embraced her, his arms hitting her at an awkward angle. Or maybe she was the awkward one. It didn’t matter. They didn’t fit, and Merrill could barely concentrate on anything else. 

“Don’t worry about a thing, darling. We’ll have a wonderful little time,” he cooed. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tugged him closer. “We’ll build ourselves a raft and drift across the Amaranthine, just like the Black Fox. Or we’ll delve the deepest mountain, just like Luthias and Scaea. Just the two of us.”

As he spoke, the moon peeked out from behind the tree line, and behind it, somewhere, was the dark moon, Satina, just out of her vision. She frowned at them both.

“Keep talking, Garrett,” she whispered, desperate. “Please. Keep talking.”


	14. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill gets some friendly advice from a fellow art critic. Carver loses his temper over an olive. Flora shows everybody who's boss.

The next morning saw little improvement in Merrill’s mood, for she’d spent the entire night tossing and turning. Every time she’d been close to sleep, she’d remember Carver’s lips on hers or the sound of his laughter, and just like that, she’d be wide awake again. 

Clearly she needed a distraction. So she did as she’d used to back in Val Royeaux whenever she’d failed a test or had bad dreams about Garrett: Merrill did her hair, put on her favorite dress and visited a museum.

As a rule, Kirkwall didn’t bother with museums. The city was more interested in living in the present than preserving its past. But an exception had been made for the Marcher history museum on the far edge of the Chantry Square, possibly because nobody ever came down to the Chantry Square if they could help it.

Merrill paid for her ticket and drifted like flotsam from display case to display case. She was the only guest so early in the morning, but she had a feeling she might be the only guest for the entire day too. So much the better. She didn’t really want to be around anybody anyway.

Methodically she read every placard and stopped in front of every case. She peered appreciatively at medallions and dresses, scepters and swords. One ceremonial urn, painted with the Conquest of Arlathan, arrested her attention for nearly fifteen minutes. Another had a long, mushroom-shaped spout that gave her a case of the giggles.

Being among all these artifacts felt somehow reassuring. Comforting. Merrill had always felt that way around fine things. Not that she liked gold and silver for its own sake, of course; rather, she liked what they represented. Power. Choice. Freedom. The rich had always had so much abundance.

And what did she have? A diploma for a job she’d never be hired for; tattoos honoring a culture she’d never experience; and a closet full of dresses she’d never be able to wear, not once she ran away with Garrett.  Meaningless. All of it meaningless. She was still just the chauffeur’s daughter, perched up in her tree, suspended between earth and sky.

The only time she’d ever felt free was when she was with Carver. But that was its own world of trouble—one she was not supposed to be thinking about right now, she reminded herself. 

No, she ought to focus on enjoying the museum, for it was likely the last she’d visit for awhile. Garrett didn’t like museums. He didn’t like art, or history. He didn’t seem to like parties very much either. Or his family. Or her cooking.

What _did_ he like?

Merrill frowned when she realized she had no answer.

She knew what Carver liked, though. He liked sailing and musicals and blackberry pudding. He liked the feeling of helping people. He liked businessing. He liked to dance. And now she was back on Carver again, and Creators, she was she such a mess that couldn’t she even distract herself properly.

As if she could physically leave her traitorous thoughts behind, Merrill fled into the Elven Empires exhibit. It was a single room, darker and dustier than the rest. Fading lyrium lamps lit the handful of display cases, showing off woven sandals and battered swords. On the wall hung an outdated map of the boundaries of Arlathan. In the Orlesian Museum of History, there had been a similar map suggesting Arlathan had been twice that size. Also, noted Merrill, that version had had fewer typos. 

Sighing, Merrill sat on the lone bench in the center of the room, making sure to avoid the wad of chewing gum squashed on the torn leather. She looked around. She should feel at peace here. This was her element: the history of her people. Yet today the walls bore down on her, close and narrow, as if she were too big for the space.

Before her hung a portrait of Fen’Harel, as painted by one of the artists of the Orlesian School. Generally Merrill preferred the Arlathan School of pre-Conquest works, but there was something arresting about this one, despite its cracked canvas and muted colors. The Dread Wolf lounged before Arlathan-style stone arches and aravel sails, yet he’d been Orlesianized: his eyes were slitted, like a mask face, and his coat shimmered with orange and red sunset hues.

The convergence was striking: the way the old and new ideas had merged, bridging the gaps between them, evolving into something new.  Merrill decided that she liked it.

But then she’d always had a fondness for the Dread Wolf, the idea of a god that existed between two worlds and could travel freely between them.  Though she wished his story hadn’t ended up with him sealing away the rest of the gods. Right now it might be nice to have an all-knowing deity come down and tell her what she was meant to do.

What was she thinking? Of course she knew what she was meant to do. She was meant to love Garrett. She was just… _scared_ right now, scared by the responsibility of it. But once, not all that long ago, she’d promised herself that she’d never again run from life or love. She couldn’t let herself run away now. 

No matter how much she might want to.

She sat for so long staring at the painting that the overhead lights, apparently on a motion sensor, flicked off. Merrill sighed, letting her head fall into her hands.

“May the Dread Wolf take me,” she muttered.

“You shouldn’t say that so loud,” said a voice behind her. The lights flicked back on. “He might hear you.”

Startled, Merrill leapt to her feet.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, whirling around. Behind her was an older woman, dressed in the plain uniform of a docent.  “I didn’t realize anybody was here. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“Disturb _me_?” The docent tossed her head back and laughed.  “Oh, child. You can’t disturb the disturbing.”

“Er, I suppose.” Merrill picked up her purse and stepped toward the exhibit’s exit.

“Ah, one of the People. So young and bright, too,” said the docent, stepping into the room. She gestured for Merrill to sit. “Please. The People are too quick to vacate their seats.”

“No, I-I really should be—“  

Ignoring her fumbling, the docent walked over to the painting and regarded it with an appraising eye. “You have good taste. I like this one too. Fen’Harel, kin to both God and Forgotten One. The bridge between two worlds.” She squinted at Fen’Harel’s face. “He’s a funny one, isn’t he? It’s almost as if he’s looking right back at you through the canvas, like a mirror. What do you think he sees?”

Merrill frowned at the docent, then the painting. “But he can’t actually see me,” she said suspiciously. “He’s not here.”

The docent laughed again. “Must he only be in one place? Bodies are such limiting things.”

Merrill shrugged. She had a point. “I suppose he’d see us then. A curator and—“ She broke off in a frustrated sigh and sagged back down on the bench. “I don’t know really. A silly little girl who’s lost her way.”

“Have you?” The docent did not look at her, simply continued her investigation of the portrait. “Sometimes we think we’ve lost our path, when it has merely changed on us.”

“What’s the difference?” Merrill muttered morosely.

“Perspective, I find. Though it usually only comes to us too late to be of any use.” The docent smirked at Fen’Harel as if he were telling her a dirty joke. “But you can always find perspective in a painting. Take this one. See how everything vanishes to two points?” She gestured to the painting. “On opposite ends of each other. And here Fen’Harel sits, right in the middle. Not choosing one or the other point, but his own way.”

Merrill nodded. “It’s a common motif in Fen’Harel art,” she replied, remembering the paintings back in Val Royeaux. “A metaphor for how he tricked and sealed away both sets of gods, leaving us without their guidance forever. “

“That’s one way to look at it. Another is that he gave us the freedom to choose our own way, without Mommy and Daddy telling us what to do. Again: Perspective.”

Merrill blinked. “I-I’ve never thought of it that way.”

“I imagine not. The lost rarely do.” The docent turned to her at last. The low light gave her grey hair an ethereal quality, turning it silver, like moonlight. “The thing about paths, child, is that they change while you walk them. With every step they get shorter or wider or sometimes go in a completely different direction. But it’s always the same path, and it’s always yours. And when you lose your way, wouldn’t you know it, but it’s always in the last place you look: Right under your feet.”

“I don’t quite understand,” replied Merrill, frowning.

“No, you don’t. But you will. Though I’ve said as much already.” The docent wagged her finger, smiling. “Shame on you for making an old woman repeat herself. They’ve called me senile for less, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

The docent chortled at Merrill’s confused expression.

“Nevermind. Enough disturbance for one day, I’d wager.” She began to walk out of the exhibit, but stopped, calling back over her shoulder, “Do take care, child. And step carefully. No path is darker than when your eyes are shut.”

As she exited the room, the lights flicked back off. 

***

“We thought of pink embriums for the cherubs and white lilies for the names,” said Flora, showing off a sketch to Carver. On it the names _Flora & Garrett _were etched in scale, like a blueprint.  “It’ll take about 2,000 lilies. We’ll float the whole thing in your pool. The outdoor one,” she added before he could ask. “We’ve drained the indoor one for the presents.”

Carver nodded, impressed at her efficiency. “You certainly seem to have it all under control.”

Flora sat on the corner of his office desk, watching her father pace behind her as he read the merger contract. “Whenever Garrett’s involved,” she said, her lips turning up in a self-assured smile, “I always make it a point to have control.”

Carver chuckled. He certainly couldn’t argue with that.

From the bar there came a loud clatter that rattled in his skull like artillery gunfire. It was Gamlen, mixing himself a drink. As usual. Carver pursed his lips. As Honorary Member of the Board, Gamlen insisted on showing up to negotiations, but he’d never showed nearly as much interest in contracts as he did in Carver’s minibar.

His uncle now peered into a nearly empty olive jar, in which clung one last olive that refused to budge. Gamlen looked deeply offended by this. He began to slam the jar against the counter. Repeatedly.

Carver pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

Lord Harriman didn’t seem to notice. Without looking up from the contract, he asked, “Where’s the provision pertaining to the ratio of investment capital to controlling interest?”

“Page 62, paragraph 6, subdivision B,” Carver and Flora rattled off simultaneously and without hesitation. They met each other’s eyes and chuckled.

“Daddy,” added Flora, “where’s the list?”

Absently Lord Harriman patted his coat pocket, then extracted a thickly folded wad of paper. “Here you are, princess.”

“Would you like to see the invitation list?” When Carver nodded, she unfurled the paper. It stretched out nearly as long as a Chrysler Aravel.

Carver scanned the names. The Teagans. The Eamons. The Pentaghasts. It was practically a who’s-who of Thedas’s business elite. He let out a low whistle. “I didn’t know you knew the Aeducans.”

“Technically, we don’t. But they’ve a large stake in Daddy’s competitors down in Orzammar. I figured if we were nice enough to them, we could persuade them of our superior value proposition.”

He peered at her. “ _You_ thought of that? Or your Daddy did?”

Flora made doe eyes at her father. “Why, Daddy did, of course,” she said in a tone that subtly indicated the complete opposite. “He’s the smartest businessman in all of Kirkwall.”

As Lord Harriman preened under his daughter’s attention, Carver hid a smile. It was starting to make a lot more sense why this merger had taken so long to develop. Clearly he’d been negotiating with the wrong Harriman all along. Maybe once this whole business with Merrill was settled, he might offer Flora a position at the newly-formed Hawke Lyrium. A directorship, perhaps. Yes, that would suit her skillset nicely.

Now all he had to do was settle the business with Merrill.

Carver’s headache worsened.

Gamlen wandered over to Lord Harriman, who looked up expectantly. But instead of commenting on the contract, Gamlen stole the paperclip from Lord Harriman’s copy. Confused, he watched as Gamlen unwound the clip and jabbed the sharp end into the olive jar to no avail.

“Where are your lawyers?” said Lord Harriman, turning back to Carver. He slapped the contract on the desk. Flora picked it up, regarding it with the mild curiosity ladies of her station usually reserved for gossip magazines. “The way this merger’s worked out, I have all the titles and you have all the control.”

“I always make it a point to have control,” replied Carver. He winked at Flora. 

“Yes, well.” Lord Harriman made a sour face. “This merger is starting to feel more like an acquisition. It’s lucky the kids are so fond of each other.”

“Yes, yes, I’m very fond of Garrett,” muttered Flora, flipping through the contract. “But Daddy, is it really that bad? Look, did you see this new clause about lowering your distribution costs to Amaranthine and Gwaren? You’ve been trying to improve your margins in those markets for years.”

“I did,” he grumbled.

“What about this section on financing your Kal’Hirol expansions? You’ll finally be able to upgrade to safer equipment for the miners.”

“Don’t forget,” added Carver, “the provision where Hawke Industries settles all your accounts in arrears.”

“Exactly,” she agreed. She laid the contract down and leveled her father with a girlishly sweet smile. “I might not know much about business, Daddy, but I think you did a very good job in coming up with this deal, a very good job indeed. Don’t you think so, Carver?”

 “I certainly do,” nodded Carver gravely. He was starting to have second thoughts about that directorship. Not that Flora wasn’t skilled, but with her powers of persuasion, she needed to be heading up a sales force—as far away from the real seat of power as possible. 

“I suppose it _is_ a good deal,” said Lord Harriman. He seemed about to say something else, but Flora interrupted before he could. 

“Of course it is, Daddy. You came up with it.” She hopped off the desk and straightened her skirt. “Now we have to meet with the caterers in twenty minutes. Shall we?”

“Of course,” he said. 

“Come along,” she said, looping her arm through his and walking toward the door. “Oh, Carver,” she called over her shoulder, “You won’t forget the lilies, will you?”

Carver rose from his chair. He pressed a button on his desk and the door opened. “Not a chance.”

Flora smiled and waved goodbye. Carver did the same.

The moment the door closed behind them, however, the smile vanished from his lips. He walked back to his desk and picked up the contract, then with a sigh, let it fall out of his fingers.

He was so close. Just 24 hours from closing this merger and making all his dreams come true. The deal of the Dragon Age. His career’s finest achievement. His magnum opus. 

Now it all tasted like so much sela petrae.

Maybe it was because the loose end with Merrill was loose _._ But even as he had the thought, he knew that wasn’t it. Or, at least, that wasn’t all of it.

Over the past few days, Carver had spent more time away from the office than he had since taking the position, and he’d never before realized just how _tired_ he was. Tired of the constant motion. Tired of always being the dependable one, the one in charge. Tired of being needed.

But it wasn’t just the company. His family needed him too. Garrett needed someone to cover for his indiscretions. Mother needed someone to lean on since Father had died. Gamlen needed someone to manage—well, _everything_. Everybody needed something, and Carver was the only one who could give.

Everybody except for Merrill, that is.

Merrill could take care of herself. Carver wondered if in fact that was what was so appealing about her: She didn’t need him to fix anything or make it better. In fact, she was often the one making it better for _him_. She made him laugh and think and feel more alive than he had in a long time, like he was a real person and not just a golem in a business suit. 

Carver allowed himself the briefest reminiscence of last night’s kiss: Merrill’s mouth opening under his, her breasts pressing softly into his chest, the little moan she’d made as she’d pulled him closer. It had been very possibly the best kiss of his life, yet it had ended far too soon. Part of him – a very large part – desperately wished he could kiss her again.

But those were thoughts he needed to dispel as soon as possible. His company, his family—his _life—_ depended on it.

A wet sound drew Carver’s attention. By the minibar, Gamlen had given up trying to get the olive out and instead had poured his mixed martini into the tiny jar, spilling most of it on the floor. Carver let out an exhausted sigh. 

“Garrett had better show up at this wedding,” grumbled Gamlen as he strutted back toward Carver’s desk. He held himself proudly, as if he meant to drink from an olive jar all along. “I have this horrible vision of Flora waiting at the altar and 2,000 white lilies floating in the pool, spelling ‘Disaster’.” 

“I doubt it,” said Carver, his head pounding. Merrill wouldn’t be running away with Garrett any time soon; at least that much of the plan had been secured. He might have bungled asking her to Val Royeaux last night, but he couldn’t help but notice how much she’d leaned away from Garrett, how she refused to meet his gaze or laugh at his jokes, except when directly prompted. Those were all very good signs.

Though the deep stab of envy he’d felt as Garrett had slung his arm around Merrill’s shoulders, like the action meant nothing, like she’d always been histo claim—that was a very, _very_ badsign. 

Carver frowned at himself and picked up his Dictaphone.

“Memo to Mrs. Hendyr,” he began, walking across his room to put some space between him and his uncle, who sipped from his olive jar as daintily as an Orlesian matron. “First call: Samson, in Hawke Shipping. We’ll be needing 2,000 lilies. Tell him to start cornering the market. Next, I want—“

Gamlen interrupted him. “You’re not having any trouble with that – that –“ He snapped his fingers. “I can never remember that garage girl’s name.”

“Merrill,” answered Carver.

“Merrill,” repeated Gamlen. “Merrill! What right has a chauffeur got to call her daughter ‘Merrill’?”

Carver glared at his uncle. “What would you suggest? ‘Gamlen’?”

Gamlen didn’t respond, just haughtily sipped from his olive jar. “You’ve taken her out three nights in a row,” he said. “Is that situation in hand?”

“It’s resolving into a straight export deal,” grumbled Carver. He held up the microphone once more. “Next, Mrs. Hendyr: I want two accommodations on _L’Éléphant Libere._ One in the name of Miss Merrill Sabrae, and one in my name.”

Gamlen’s head snapped around so fast Carver thought—hoped—it might twist off like a cherry.

“What’s this?” he snarled. “You and that garage girl going off on a boat together? Did that Fereldan father of yours spawn two idiot sons?”

Carver ground his teeth.

“Who said I was going?” he snapped. “She’s going because she’ll think I am. But I’m not. I’ll tell her I’ll meet her on the boat, but when it’s ten miles out to sea, she’ll find out I’m not on it. My cabin will be empty, just a note of apology and—“ Carver’s voice fell, hating himself as the words came out of his mouth, “a few presents to soften the blow.”

“Excellent,” said Gamlen, with a nod of approval.

“Yes.” Carver sneered. “I thought _you_ would like it.”

As Gamlen sucked down the last of his olive jar martini, Carver turned back to the Dictaphone. “Next, Mrs. Hendyr: I want flowers in Miss Sabrae’s cabin. Candy. Fruit—“

With a pang he remembered how she’d run her finger along the dessert plate, offering him the blackberry glaze from her fingertip before giving up and sucking it clean herself. Carver swallowed before continuing.

“Make it blackberries. The Fereldan kind. Next, cable Marjolaine to get her a car in Val Royeaux. Also an apartment. Next, a letter of credit in our Val Royeaux bank. She can draw up to 50,000 sovereigns.”

“Easy now,” said Gamlen, peering into the jar. The olive still hadn’t come loose. 

Blood rushed in Carver’s ears, making his head pound even harder. “Next, transfer to Marethari Sabrae one thousand shares of Hawke Common.”

Gamlen blinked. “One _thousand_ shares?”

“Make it fifteen hundred shares,” growled Carver, fingers clenching the microphone. “Hawke Preferred.”

“Seems to me,” muttered Gamlen, poking his finger into the jar, “that there ought to be a less extravagant way of getting a garage girl out of one’s hair.”

“How would you do it?”  Carver slammed the Dictaphone down on his desk. “You can’t even get a little olive out of a jar!”

Carver grabbed the jar from Gamlen’s hand. All of this was Gamlen’s fault, really. Men like him were the reason people still wrote plays about actresses and princes running off together on the backs of elephants. Because no matter how hard men like Carver worked to bring the rest of his fellows up, there was always someone like Gamlen who would keep them down. Who thought his money made him better than everyone else. Who believed the system worked, because it worked for _him_.

But maybe the system was broken. Or maybe it needed breaking.

With a quick flick of the wrist, Carver smashed the jar against the side of his marble desk. Glass shattered, shards scattering everywhere. Carver pinched the olive and roughly shoved it into his uncle’s surprised mouth.

“Eat it, you bastard,” he snarled.

With a look of terror on his face, Gamlen obeyed. 


	15. The Souffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill tells Carver goodbye. Carver learns how not to crack an egg. A startling discovery is made.

As she approached 30 Herren Street, Merrill slowed her pace so that she could listen, really _listen,_ to the sound of her shoes hitting the pavement. Each clack she counted like grains in an hourglass. Heel, toe. Heel. Toe. To hear she had to concentrate very carefully, for the sounds were easily swallowed by the passing cars and pedestrians. Heel, toe. Heel, _muffle_. Oh no. That wouldn’t do. She retraced her steps. Toe. Heel. Heel. _Toe._ Much better.

It was possible that she was stalling.

Very possible.

Sighing, she stared up at the skyscraper before her. The building stretched high into the sky, so high she couldn’t see the top. That’s where Carver’s office was, somewhere, up there, like an aerie lost in the clouds.

To belay the sudden melancholy she forced herself to think of something ridiculous: Carver sitting on a clutch of eggs, warming them with his exquisitely-shaped behind. She imagined him with feathers instead of pinstripes, a beak instead of nose. Perhaps he’d cluck irritably.

But even that mental picture couldn’t lift her spirits, not when she knew full well what she’d come here to do: To say goodbye. 

She didn’t have to, of course. Carver was boarding the boat to Val Royeaux in the morning. She could simply go home and wait until tomorrow and be done with it, and him, forever. But that was a child’s solution, and Merrill was no child. Besides, she owed Carver—and herself—more than that.

So she lifted her chin and squared her shoulders and strode through the double doors, which opened for her as if they’d been expecting her all along.  

When she came to the elevator, however, her feet slowed down again, quite of their own accord. Merrill found she couldn’t make them move again. It was as if a great weight was pressing down on her, keeping her in place. She stared at the cab dumbly.  

This was a bad idea, a very bad idea. One of her worst. She shouldn’t be here. She should be at home, with her mother, and her dog, and _Garrett_.

 “Going up?” prompted the elevator operator. He was an older elf who frowned at her with such imperious annoyance that Merrill momentarily forgot her doubt and leapt into the cab just to appease him. It wasn’t until the doors had closed that she’d realized what she’d done.

“22nd floor, thank you,” she mumbled, defeated.

She rode the elevator in silence. She still had no idea what to say to Carver. But she had to make him understand. It was over. This—whatever this was between them—it wouldn’t go on. It _couldn’t_ go on. Not with him in Val Royeaux and her off with Garrett to Creators-knew-where.  She’d found her path, and he wasn’t on it.

That was how their story ended, simple as that.

The elevator dinged. She debarked. None of the secretaries were left in the front room but Mrs. Hendyr, who frowned down at a stack of papers as if it had insulted her grandmother. 

For a moment, Merrill quailed. She hadn’t expected anybody else to be here, much less Mrs. Hendyr. Her presence complicated things greatly. For goodbyes were private things, and Merrill could hardly give hers with Carver’s secretary just in the next room—what if she overheard?

Without looking up, Mrs. Hendyr punched a small button on her desk. “Miss Sabrae for you, Mister Hawke.”

“Please send her in,” said Carver’s tinny voice on the other end. At the sound of it, Merrill’s heart dropped into her feet and she almost fled back into the elevator.

The door opened. Mrs. Hendyr made a vague gesture toward it, muttering, “Your prince awaits.”  

Merrill stared at the open door. It was too late. Mrs. Hendyr or no, there was no turning back now.

“Thank you,” Merrill said with a gulp. “Have a nice night.”

“You too,” replied Mrs. Hendyr. She looked up at Merrill, and there was something unreadable in her expression, almost like, but not quite, sympathy. Not for the first time, Merrill wondered if Mrs. Hendyr had some secret knowledge of the future. Perhaps she somehow knew already what Merrill had come here to do.

But nevermind that now. Merrill steeled herself and walked through the door.

Inside, Carver stood by his desk, as large and handsome as ever. His hair was ruffled, as if he’d been repeatedly running his hand through it, and he was frowning grievously at some scraps of paper in his hand. To Merrill, he seemed too big for the room, or she too small for it.  

When he saw her, he smiled, and familiar heat bloomed in Merrill’s chest. She forced herself to ignore it.

“Merrill?” he said, dropping the pieces of paper on his desk. “What happened to you? It’s twenty past eight.”

“Good evening, Carver,” she said, then fell silent.

“I was worried,” he added.

“I’m sorry. I—“ She tried to think of something, anything, else to say, but nothing came. “I’m sorry.”

“Well, I’m sorry to say that we’ve missed dinner,” he said, peering at her. “Likely the show too.”

“I’m sorry,” she said again.

He pushed a button and the door closed behind her with a click. She tried not to flinch. But now that she was here, seeing him in front of her, she knew that coming in person had been a mistake.  

“I know I’m late,” she said. She made several attempts to look him in the eye, but her gaze slid away each time. “I know I should have called you earlier, but—I can’t see you tonight. I tried, but—but—I’m all tied up,” she finished lamely.

He frowned. “But you’re right here.”

“I know where I _am,_ ” she snapped. “But I’m not where I ought to have been. Or where I will be.” 

His brow furrowed deeper. “What?”

“Creators,” she sighed. “I shouldn’t have come. I’ll just—“

“Wait!” She stopped mid-turn. He lurched toward her, straight into his desk. He grunted loudly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing, Carver.” She watched him scoot around the desk, transfixed by how the fabric of his blazer folded around his shoulders. Her heart pounded. “I just can’t see you tonight. That’s all.”

He took a cautious step toward her, as if she were a spooked puppy. “What’s gotten into—“

“Stop.” She hated how her voice warbled. She closed her eyes and forced herself to speak more firmly. Like the adult, like the _lady_ she knew she was. “Just stop. Don’t come any closer.”

Obligingly he halted his advance, letting his hands fall to his sides.

“Okay, Merrill. You win. I’ll stay right here. Just—please. Tell me what’s on your mind,” he said. He spoke to her in low, soothing tones, like how he’d talked to her in the garage all those years ago. The worry in his eyes was the same now as then too. “You talk, and I’ll listen.”

For a brief moment she considered turning around and pounding her fists on the door until Mrs. Hendyr let her out. But that wouldn’t help. It was as the docent had said: She was on her path now, and one way or another, she had to walk it.

She inhaled, bracing herself.

“It was Garrett’s idea I go out with you tonight, because he wants you to help him,” she began. “But the trouble is, it’s not helping _me_ any _._ You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“Not really,” he said, though his breath was coming to him more quickly.

“I shouldn’t have been seeing you, Carver. I shouldn’t even be here. I guess I really only came to say goodbye, because tomorrow, you’ll be on the boat to Val Royeaux.” Instead of looking at him, she fidgeted with the sleeve of her coat. “Though, in a way, I’m glad you’re going. You have your path to walk and I have mine. And you can’t not walk yours, just like I can’t not walk mine. Because they’re both right under our feet, you see. They always have been. Do you understand what I’m saying, Carver?” 

“Not really,” he said again.   

“I love Garrett,” she finished. She should have started with that. She didn’t know why she hadn’t.  “I always have. I always will.”

“I know,” he said in the bitterest voice she’d ever heard him use.

Merrill dared a glance at him. His face had become as hard as stone, and he stared at the wall as if it were an army of approaching darkspawn.

She swallowed. “You’re—you’re not angry with me, are you?”

“Of course not,” he replied, though his shoulders remained tight and his jaw clenched, and he still wouldn’t look at her, why wouldn’t he look at her?

She cleared her throat, for lack of anything better to do, and squinted up at the ceiling lights. “Can you—can you? They’re so bright. Right in my eyes.”

Still without looking at her, he pressed a button on his desk, and the lights went off. The office was plunged into darkness.

Outside night had fallen. Through the window the city lights illuminated Carver’s shadow so that he seemed to Merrill like some celestial body, only visible because it blotted out the moonlight behind it. It was a beautiful sight.

 _He_ was a beautiful sight.

“Thank you,” she said, voice warbling again. 

“No problem.”

A long silence passed. She’d done it. She’d said goodbye… and the rest. It was out now—or most of it, at least. The part that mattered. And there was no taking any of it back.

Merrill counted her heartbeats and waited for Carver to speak, even though she was sure it wouldn’t do any good. Nothing he could say would change anything.

All the same, however, she still wished he’d try.

“I,” he said, dragging a hand over his face. “I could use a drink. Thirsty?” 

She shook her head. He shrugged and walked over to the bar. He opened a cabinet and stared inside without choosing any of the bottles. He closed the door and opened another and stared into that one too without selecting anything.

“Are you sure you won’t have anything?”

“No, thank you.”

She ought to leave. She’d told him what needed telling, so there was no reason for her to stay. But she just couldn’t make her feet move. She’d expected to feel at least a little relief, but the great weight that had been pressing down on her had only gotten heavier, and it took every ounce of her strength just to stay upright, without pitching toward him.

“You must be hungry,” said Carver, closing a third cabinet.

She considered him. He looked so small now, so unthreatening. He was just a shadow of himself, an outline, a dark moon. In the dark it was easier to forget all that had happened between them. It was easier to tell herself that it hadn’t mattered, that they were just comfortable old friends sharing the same room. So maybe it would be alright if she stayed awhile. After all, there was nothing to fear anymore. Nothing to worry about. They were just friends, just as they’d always been.

She started to walk towards him. “I guess I hadn’t thought much about it.”

“I’m starved,” he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “I was sort of saving myself for Edwina’s tonight.”

Her mouth and eyes watered. “I’ve spoiled your evening, haven’t I?”

He waved a hand, as if pushing the thought away. “No matter,” he said. “We can just have dinner right here. Let’s see what Mrs. Hendyr is hoarding, shall we?” he continued, sliding open another cabinet. “Tomato juice. Puffed rice crackers. Sardines. Tomato juice. Maraschino cherries. Tomato juice. Tomato juice.”

“That’s an awful lot of tomato juice,” she conceded.

“Think we can fix something out of all this?”

He leaned his hands on the bar countertop and shot her a side-long smirk, as if she were his co-conspirator in some grand scheme. He looked so effortlessly like himself--so _Carver,_ so everything familiar and reassuring -- that she couldn’t help but smile.

“Of course.” She lifted her chin proudly. “I’m a graduate cook, you know. I have a diploma.”

“Oh, it’ll take a diploma,” he said, grinning back.

Her heart squeezed painfully, and her smile fell. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“ _That_. What you’re doing right now.”

“I’m not following, Merrill.”

“Distracting me,” she ground out. “Stop it. Just stop it, alright? It isn’t funny anymore. _”_

He chuckled; it was a dry thing, like dead winter leaves. “Of course it isn’t.” He held out his hand. “You really should take off your coat. You wouldn’t want to get tomato juice on it.”

She hesitated a moment, but then shrugged off her coat and gloves and laid them in Carver’s outstretched hand.

“Look at you.” He stared at her. “No dress.”

She spared a glance downward. She’d left at home her Orlesian dresses and her fancy skirts and instead pulled out an outfit from the back of her closet: black leggings, a long black shirt, a green over-tunic. It was how she used to dress. Not like a lady, but an elf.  

“No dress,” she said with a surprised nod; with his ill-fitting suits and aversion to hats, she hadn’t thought Carver the sort to notice. “I wanted to be sure I couldn’t go out with you to dinner or dancing or—anything.”

“You look beautiful,” he said, taking a step toward her.

She squinted at him, confused. “The lights are down. You can’t even see how I look.”

“No,” he shook his head. His eyes glinted in the dark, and suddenly it was very difficult to remember that they were supposed to be just friends. “I mean, you always look beautiful to me. No matter what you wear.”

Her heart flip-flopped. Suddenly, violently, she wanted to hurl her arms around his neck and kiss him and tell him she hadn’t meant a word of what she’d said before. She clenched her fists against the temptation until her knuckles turned white. “I guess maybe I should have worn an apron then.”

“Two aprons, coming up,” he said brightly. He opened a drawer and tugged out two aprons. He held one out to her, and the other he slung around his neck. It dangled, small and useless, against his blazer. The sight would have been funny, under other circumstances. Now it just made her eyes sting.

“Pots, pans, stove,” he continued, flipping open the countertop to reveal a small set of burners, “There’s a fridge down here with some more staples.” He started pulling down bottles, busying himself with arranging them in nice, neat lines. “You should know, I’m not that good of a cook. I once made dinner here for the board of directors. After the first course, there was a move to adjourn. It was passed unanimously.”

Merrill closed her eyes and swallowed back the lump in her throat. Here he was, trying to be so brave for her sake, pretending that nothing had changed between them, when in fact everything had changed, everything, because of all those things she’d said, she hadn’t said the one thing that needed saying most. She’d been so busy pretending that it wasn’t true that she hadn’t even realized it needed saying.

She didn’t love Carver’s brother.

She loved Carver instead.

_If you’re such an expert on stories, Merrill, then tell me: How does ours end?_

_It ends with you boarding the boat on Thursday._

Merrill unsuccessfully fought back a sniffle.

“What do we start with?” he said softly.

“I haven’t decided yet.” She swiped at her eyes before he could see.

Carver looked at her with such gentleness in his eyes that fresh tears slid down her cheeks. “Are you—?”

His voice died away before he could finish the question. He offered her his handkerchief, which she took gratefully and dabbed at her cheeks.

“I’m so ashamed, Carver,” she moaned.

“You have no reason to be.”

“Of course I do. I’ve known you only a few days—“ She sniffled again. “Just three days, really.”

“That’s not true,” he said. He leaned toward her and brushed a lock hair back behind her ear. He was close enough now that she could smell the soap in his hair, feel the heat radiating off him in great waves. She wanted to lean into him, and hated herself for wanting it. “We grew up together, you and I. We’ve known each other for years.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “No, we haven’t. Not like this.”

He said nothing. His hand fell back to his side. 

“I’ve been in love with Garrett all my life. And I can’t—” Suddenly she felt desperate, terribly desperate, as if she were clinging to a tree in the middle of a hurricane. “—I can’t—“ She bumped her head against the top cabinet, “I _can’t_ understand what’s the matter with me.”

A sob racked her tiny frame.

“Nothing’s the matter with you,” said Carver, his voice barely audible.

“Everything’s the matter with me. I went away to grow up, and I thought I _had_ grown up. But I guess I haven’t really. I’ve just gotten myself some new tattoos, that’s all.”

Carver stared down at his hands.

“Please,” she begged after a minute had passed, “please say something.” 

“What would you like me to say.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t anything. His voice was dull and flat in a way she’d never heard before. She hated it. His voice usually had so much color to it: deep tones, hard vowels, clipped consonants. It was like listening to a song. And now the song was gone.

“I don’t know,” she said, fresh tears streamed down her cheeks. “Anything.”

She’d never wanted anybody to touch her more than in this moment. She wanted Carver to wrap his arms around her and tell her that it would all be okay, even though she knew it couldn’t be, because she was in love with him and not Garrett, and he was leaving tomorrow, leaving her forever. But still she wanted him to do it. She wanted him to pull her into his arms and kiss the top of her head and reassure her with the sweetest promises a man could make.

But he wouldn’t, would he? Because that wasn’t what Carver did. That was what Garrett did. And she didn’t want that anymore. She didn’t want champagne and fantasies and promises. She wanted stability. Love. A place in this world.

Forget the moon; she wanted the earth right under her feet.

“Tell me I’m imagining things,” she said, her voice gaining strength as she spoke. “Tell me you never meant to kiss me. Tell me you never once thought of taking me on that boat to Val Royeaux with you. Tell me—“ She inhaled sharply. More tears fell. “Tell me you don’t feel the same way about me as I do about you. Tell me that when you’re with me, everything doesn’t just make perfect sense.” 

Carver shifted uneasily. “Merrill.”

“Just—please don’t tell me to go home. I couldn’t bear it. This is the last time we’re going to see each other.” She offered the countertop a watery smile. “This is our grand finale.”

“Please don’t say that,” he whispered in a broken voice.

She glanced at him. He looked like those marble statues in the Orlesian Museum, the carved figures clutching at each other, twisted in grief and frustration. And that’s when she saw it. That’s when she really _saw_ it. Carver loved her; that much was clear. But she was asking him to choose—to choose between her and Garrett; between his brother’s happiness and his own. Between his path and hers.

She couldn’t make him do that. It wasn’t right. Merrill knew she was many things—stubborn and short-sighted and sometimes very selfish—but she was not cruel, not if she could help it.

“Don’t worry,” she said softly. “I’ll behave now, I promise.”

She slipped her handkerchief back in his blazer’s front pocket and patted his chest. He was usually so solid under her fingers, yet when she tapped him now he rocked back on his heels, pushed back as easily as if she were a strong gust of springtime wind. 

“Good,” he whispered. 

“I just remembered,” she said, with as much cheer as she could muster. She reached around Carver to take the tomato juice cans onto her side of the countertop. He didn’t move, even when she brushed his elbow. “I didn’t have any lunch today either.”

“Hunger makes fools of us both,” he said. He was looking her intently, but she didn’t want to torment him or herself any longer, so she refused to meet his gaze.

Nodding, she opened the mini-fridge. Inside was a carton of milk and a basket of eggs, which she took out. “Would you like a soufflé for dessert?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then hand me a mixing bowl.”

Finally he moved. He pulled out a glass bowl from one of the cabinets and set it before her. Then, mechanically, he took one of the eggs from the basket in his hand. He was about to whack it against the countertop when she laid a hand on his arm and stopped him. 

“Not like a sword,” she said. His hand fell open and she took his egg. Her fingers brushed against his palm, and his whole hand twitched. “Like a whip,” she said. She set the egg against the edge of the bowl. “New egg, crack!” The yolk slid obligingly into the bowl. “You see? A single slash of the wrist.”

“I see,” he said, his voice husky and raw. His palm still rested on the countertop face up. He leaned toward her. She shuddered instinctively but did not look at him. “You’ve taught me so much.”

“You haven’t forgotten my instructions, have you?” she said with false cheer, taking another egg to hide the fact her hand was shaking. “Never an umbrella in Val Royeaux, and never a briefcase. And under all circumstances, get lost the very first day.”

“I haven’t forgotten a word, Merrill.” He lifted his hand and placed it on hers, heavy and warm. She swallowed and hoped Carver didn’t notice how her hand trembled. “My sister has a yellow pencil. _Ma soeur a un crayon jaune._ ”

“Very good,” she murmured, heart in her throat. “ _Tres Bien.”_  

He lifted his hand away from hers, and she cracked the egg against the bowl to forget the feel of it, now and forever.

“Now you try,” she said, pushing the bowl toward him. “Do you have an egg beater?”

“Somewhere.” He cracked an egg, and the yolk ran through his fingers into the bowl.

“I’ll look.” She began to open drawers, but she couldn’t see anything.  “Can I turn on the lights?”

“Sure,” he said, distracted by trying to fish a bit of shell from the bowl before him. “No—wait!”

But it was too late. She’d already walked over to his desk and pressed the button that turned on the overhead lights; and there she’d seen them sitting on the desk, those two scraps of paper that Carver had been looking at when she first came in.

But they weren’t scraps of paper. They were tickets. Boat tickets. One in Carver’s name.

And one in hers.


	16. The Broken Eggs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver comes clean, and Merrill makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for the unexpected mini-hiatus, and so close to the end of this story too! I received some very bad news in my personal life, and I had to take a bit of a break from my commitments for awhile to recover. 
> 
> But I'm back now, and ready to get back on the writing train. Thanks for your patience and support. Let's do this!

For a few heartbeats, Merrill couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could barely breathe past the tightness in her throat. She stared at the tickets without blinking, as if the one with her name on it might at any moment disappear.

A ticket. To Val Royeaux. In her name. But that was—

_Tell me, how does our story end?_

_It ends with you boarding the boat on Thursday._

She laid one trembling hand on the tickets. They were in fact very real, the cardstock thick and substantial to the touch. She swiped her finger along the letters that spelled out MERRILL SABRAE. They was real too; she could feel the indentations where the typewriter had pressed each letter into the paper.

She exhaled.

“Carver,” she said.

He didn’t reply, so Merrill looked over at him. His back was still facing her, his head down, hands gripping the countertop of the bar as if he might fall over at any minute. 

In her chest, her heart skittered, like a stone on water. She picked up the tickets and made her way to Carver’s side. 

“Carver, why didn’t you tell me you had—?” But she couldn’t finish her sentence, because suddenly she was smiling, _beaming_ , her mouth open so wide she thought her cheeks might tear apart, “You really _do_ want to take me with you, don’t you?”

Hands falling away from the counter, Carver turned toward her. Yet he did not meet her eyes.

“Those—“ Then he cleared his throat and began again, “Those don’t mean what you think they mean.”

But Merrill could barely hear him past the wild, wicked pounding in her ears. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she cried, throwing herself at him. She wrapped her arms around him and buried her face in his neck and kissed his cheeks, his chin, his lips; she took his jaw in both hands and, giggling, kissed his nose. Carver stood still as a statue, motionlessly taking what she gave him. Clearly he was in shock, or maybe just embarrassed. But Merrill—oh, she could not contain this happiness bubbling inside her. She’d never known one person could feel so much joy and not burst. “You horrible man, letting me go on like that, thinking you indifferent, when you knew all along you’d take me! You horrible, cruel man! I don’t care for your sense of humor, Carver, not one bit.”

Carver inhaled deeply. “Merrill—“

“Oh, I know. You were worried about what they’d say, is that it? The papers would find out, and there’d be an awful scandal, and the market would go down.” She rolled her eyes and hugged him all the tighter. “That doesn’t matter. Let them talk. Let the whole world know that Carver Aristide Hawke is taking me to Val Royeaux!”

“Merrill.” Carver’s hands settled gently on her elbows. He didn’t pull her closer, but he didn’t push her away either. When he spoke, his voice was low and raw, like stones grinding together. “I—I wasn’t going to take you to Val Royeaux. I was going to—to send you.”

Merrill stilled.

“Alone?” Her fingers clenched and twisted together behind Carver’s neck. 

“Yes. Alone.”

Merrill blinked. Stepping back, she studied Carver’s face, looking for some secret meaning to his words, some hidden joke she wasn’t getting. Yet there was no humor in his expression now. 

“But there’s a ticket for you.”

He closed his eyes, unable or unwilling to meet her gaze.

“For an empty cabin,” he said.

A wild hope flared in her chest. “You were joining me in Val Royeaux, is that it?”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

Merrill felt the joy slip away from her like so much smoke through her fingers. None of this made any sense. Carver wasn’t taking her to Val Royeaux. But he’d bought them both tickets anyway. He’d kissed her. He’d flirted with her. He’d asked her all those questions about hats. But now he wasn’t going.

What sort of game _was_ this?

“I’m sorry,” Carver offered eventually.

“But why?” She swallowed and forced the words past a throat that was suddenly as dry as the Anderfels. “Why would you do it, Carver?”

“Business,” he said, his gaze falling to the floor. “A marriage. A merger. Thousands of jobs. Industrial progress. You—you got in the way.”

Expansion? A merger? Then realization dawned on her. _The fiancée._ What was her name? Fauna—Fauna something. Oh yes—Fauna Harriman, of Harriman National Mining. And next week she’d be getting married to— “Garrett?”

“That’s right.”

_Garrett._

Everything always came back to Garrett. 

It’d be funny, thought Merrill, if the situation wasn’t so serious. After all, she didn’t love Garrett anymore, she could see that now. She probably never had. She loved Carver, and Carver loved her.

Or did he?

Had he ever _said_ it?

Merrill racked her memory. He’d kissed her, hadn’t he? And he’d said “I wish I were my brother.” Wasn’t that just as good?

Heart sinking, she squeezed her eyes shut. Of course it wasn’t. It wasn’t even close to the same. What sounded like a confession from one angle was merely idle small-talk from another. Of course Carver would wish he was his brother; his brother had charm, wit, a marvelous beard. Wishing to be Garrett had nothing to do with her at all—and that’s only if the statement hadn’t been an outright lie in the first place.

And the kiss—well, clearly it had well and truly been an accident, and any heat behind it had been all in her head.

So _this_ is what the docent had meant by perspective.

Understanding crashed over Merrill. All of it, everything, had been an act. Carver had just been appealing to her sense of pride all along. Her stupid, stubborn, childish pride. He’d played her like a lute, and she’d let him because she’d dared to want to be special, to be desired, to be important. To belong.  

The truth was, inside Merrill was still just that silly little girl sitting in a tree, pining for what could and would never be hers. 

Merrill tightened her jaw and lifted her chin. She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream or wail or pound her fists on the ground. She wouldn’t let any of her heartbreak show. Her pride got her into this mess; the least she could do was let it carry her out.

“How inconsiderate of me,” she said primly. “And how inconvenient for you. Such a busy man needing to waste so much time, just to get a girl on a boat.”

Before her, Carver looked like a dried husk of himself, as if one great gust of wind might blow him away. Merrill wished it would. She hated him. In that moment, she truly hated him, and his brother, and every Hawke there was and had ever been.

“I’m ashamed to say I enjoyed every minute of it,” Carver said, eyes still cast to the floor. “Every second.”

The sound of his voice, even now so deep and warm, reminded Merrill: No, she didn’t hate him. She couldn’t hate him. Not when so large a part of her still longed to embrace him, that same wicked, traitorous part of her that had cried out for his touch all along. She bit the inside of her bottom lip so she wouldn’t scream. “It’s fun to lie to someone who doesn’t know any better, is that it?”

“Not at all,” he said. He reached for her, and she jerked out of the way. He dropped his hand. “Merrill—Merrill, I—“

But she didn’t want to hear his excuses.

“I suppose in your empty cabin,” she continued, her rising humiliation making it difficult to keep her voice steady, “there would have been a farewell note dictated to and typed by Mrs. Hendyr.” She narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps 25,000 coppers.”

Wincing as if struck, Carver shook his head. Then he walked over to the desk and opened a drawer, carefully looking at the papers within and not at her. One by one, he dropped the papers on the desk. “A letter of credit in your name. An apartment in Val Royeaux. A personal car. Fifteen hundred shares of Hawke preferred, for your mother.” 

Each slap of paper had a certain finality to it, like the chiming of Chantry bells after a funeral. So that’s how it was. That’s how it had always been. She really had never been anything more to Carve but an obstacle, a purchase price.

What a fool she was.

Merrill felt the bitterest edge of her anger ebb, leaving only aching void in its place. She took off her apron and laid it on the counter.

“How generous of you,” she said.

“It was a necessary business expense,” he mumbled.

Numbly, she walked over and stood across the desk from him. She held out her hand. “Keep it all. I’ll just take one of those tickets, please.”

Holding out the ticket to her, Carver finally lifted his gaze to hers.

His eyes burned bright and blue with something Merrill couldn’t quite define. Triumph, maybe. Satisfaction at a job well done. Her hand lingered on the ticket as she tried to look away but couldn’t.

No, it wasn’t triumph she saw in his eyes. It was something sadder. Guilt. Regret. _Loss._ Feelings she knew well. The same feelings roiling inside her right now.

Carver might have tricked her, but that didn’t mean he’d wanted to do it. It didn’t meant he’d liked it.

It also didn’t mean he’d loved her all along.

“Merrill, I—“

Suddenly she felt very tired. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. She jerked the slip of paper out of Carver’s hand. His hand lurched at the abrupt motion, then fell to his side.

He didn’t move, and neither did she.

“You must be very angry with me,” he said at last.

“I’m not. Well, I am a little.” She looked down at the ticket in her hand. “More than that, though, I think I feel sorry for you.”

He frowned, as if he’d have preferred her anger. “Is that so?

She nodded.

“I may be silly and naïve and proud, but at least I know what I want.” She felt herself gathering strength as she spoke. “You don’t even have that much, do you? You’re too busy taking care of everyone that you’ve forgotten how.”

“That’s not true,” he said softly. At his side, his hands curled into fists. “I…I want.”

“Oh?” She raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “What? What is it you want?”

“Merrill.” His eyes burning, boring into her, Carver swallowed as if parched by thirst. “Do you even need to ask?”

Sudden heat flushed to her cheeks, as a different sort of understanding unfolded within her. Maybe her instincts had been correct all along.

“Tell me,” she insisted.

“Why?” His voice was barely audible. 

“I need to hear it.” Her pulse pounded in her ears. “I need to know. You owe me that much.”

“I—“ Carver’s fists clenched, then relaxed. He looked away. “I can’t.”

There was a long silence, in which Merrill wondered if it really mattered to hear him say he wanted her. Because clearly Carver loved her. He just felt he couldn’t say so, because of the lie, because of his brother. Because of a lot of things.

But it was all out between them now, wasn’t it? He had nothing more to hide, nothing else holding him back. And if there was even a chance that they could still end this together—

 “You should take what you want anyway,” she said.

Carver sighed. “You know I can’t.”

Exhaustion and disappointment flooded Merrill like the incoming tide. Suddenly she wanted to sag onto the desk, press her cheek to the cool marble, and go to sleep for a long, long time.

“I see,” she said instead. “That’s how it is.”

“That’s how it has to be,” he agreed.

She watched him closely for a moment, to see if there were any doubt, any vulnerabilities, any waver in his resolve. But there wasn’t. Merrill sighed.

“I should leave,” she said. “I have a lot of packing to do.” She began to gather her things and put on her coat. Then she paused, arm half into her sleeve. “Carver?”

“Yes?”

“You can play the self-sacrificing soldier all you like, but being afraid of happiness doesn’t make you a hero. It just makes you a coward.” When Carver said nothing, she shrugged on her coat the rest of the way. “I was happy in Val Royeaux, and I think you would have been too.”

“Merrill,” he muttered.

But she turned and walked toward the door instead.

“Goodbye, Messere Hawke.” When she got to the doorway, she called out behind her, “I’m sorry I can’t stay to do the dishes.”

Then walked out Carver’s office without looking back.

***

Several minutes after she’d left, Carver finally sunk to his chair. His hands hung bonelessly from the armrests as he stared at the closed door, trying to remember how to breathe.

Merrill was gone. And she wasn’t coming back. Ever.

He looked over at the eggs still on the countertop, their broken shells jutting every which angle. At the moment, Carver felt deep kinship with them: shattered, hollow, empty.

Discarded.

But that was nonsensical—for he had done the discarding, hadn’t he? He’d finally come clean about the ruse, and Merrill had left with a ticket in her hand. No more trick. No more lies. It was as simple as that.

So why did his chest feel so hollow? Why was his breath still juddery and weak?

_At least I know what I want. You don’t even have that much._

How wrong she was. Carver knew exactly what he wanted, what he’d wanted ever since he’d seen her step out of Garrett’s car three days ago, her arms outstretched and ready to seize the world. He’d known what he’d wanted when she’d clinked his champagne glass, when the sea breeze had tousled her hair, when she sang sleepily in off-key Orlesian. When he’d held her in her arms, soft and warm and perfect.

He’d always known what he’d wanted. But what good was wanting when he could never have what he desired? 

Carver already wanted so many impossible things. He wanted to be free of this company. He wanted Ferelden, his home back the way it was before the war. He wanted his father alive. He wanted his older sister back.

But Carver never got what he wanted. And in the end, the wanting only hurt him more than if he’d never wanted in the first place.

That’s why he’d simply stopped letting himself feel desire—until Merrill came along, that is.

Just take what you want, she’d said. As if that’s all he had to do. As if it were really that easy.

In Carver’s experience, life just didn’t work out that way.

His way was better. Much better. Better for Merrill to be happy in Val Royeaux without him. Better for her to forget, and live the rest of her life thinking him just another cold businessman behind a marble desk than to know the truth.

That he wanted _her_ most of all.

Carver’s eyes landed on the medal hanging on his wall, mostly hidden in the evening’s shadows. Merrill had been right about one thing, he supposed. When it came down to it, Carver really was just a coward.

But cowards survived where braver men fell. Cowards lived to take care of their families and shoulder the burden of failing businesses. Cowards took care of everyone, because somebody needed to, because not everybody had the convenience of dying young and leaving behind their messes.

Speaking of mess... Carver’s gaze drifted back to the eggs. As he watched, a bit of goo oozed down to the countertop from the tip of one of the shells. He’d have to clean that up soon. Otherwise it would get sticky and crust over.

What if he didn’t, though? What if he just left it the way it was? Would someone else—Mrs. Hendyr, perhaps, or his brother—see the mess and clean it up instead?

Carver chuckled bitterly. It wasn’t fair of him to ask Mrs. Hendyr, not when she already had so much work to do. And his brother? Clean up a mess? What was he thinking? Carver might as well wish for a pet wyvern.

So instead Carver stood up and walked to the bar, where he took out a washcloth and got to work. 

***

Merrill had left the door to her apartment wide open, so for a time Garrett simply leaned against the jamb and watched her pack.

Carefully, she laid sweaters and dresses in her valises. She packed up this belt, frowned at that hat; she picked up a playbill and set it down again very gingerly, as if it were made of glass. Every now and then, she’d gently scratch Garrett the puppy, who curled in the center of one of her suitcases and watched the real Garrett with a suspicious eye. 

A fine cool breeze swept into the little space as she worked, rustling the curtains and the back of her hair. Garrett felt the chill down to his bones. It was as if he were seeing a secret side of Merrill—or more accurately, a secret place, one where he didn’t belong. It was fascinating, but somewhat unsettling too, for Garrett wasn’t used to not belonging in places.

“If I’d known you were so eager to run away with me,” he said when he could take the uneasiness no longer, “I would have had Carver turn the hammock into a sled. You could have pulled me behind the car, like a tugboat.”

Merrill jumped and turned around.

“Garrett!” She discreetly swiped at her cheeks. “I didn’t know you were there.”

“Getting an early start on your packing, are you?” he said with a smirk. He walked into the room. “I can’t say I blame you, but don’t trouble yourself too much. I don’t get my stitches out until tomorrow morning, and seeing as how we are sled-less, we won’t be able to leave until the afternoon anyway.” Garrett frowned; now that he was closer, he could see that her eyes were definitely redder than usual. “Merrill, is something wrong? Are you crying?”  

“No, no, no. Of course not.” She waved a hand, as if dismissing the thought, and turned back toward her suitcases.

“What is it?” He took a step toward her, and, perhaps unconsciously, she shied back. “C’mon, kiddo, you can tell me.”

She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

“Why should you be sad? We’re about to start our new lives together! Isn’t that exciting?”

Merrill said nothing, but fresh tears welled in her eyes.

Garrett scratched his chin thoughtfully. “You’ll miss your mother, is that it?” Garrett supposed that Marethari was the kind of mother one might miss, though over the years she’d offered him little but vague disapproval. However, that was likely because Garrett preferred to drive himself places. Only natural that a chauffeur would disapprove of that.

Merrill sighed. “No, that isn’t it.”

“Are you sad to be leaving the rest of the servants? They love you so much, I know.”

“The rest of—?” She chuckled, but it wasn’t a nice sound, like her usual laughter. It was low and hollow and—bitter? How odd. “No, Garrett. That isn’t it either.”

“Then what is it? Is it Carver?” She winced at the sound of his brother’s name, and Garrett knew he’d struck true. He frowned. ”Did he say something to upset you? Because if he did—“

 “Garrett,” she said, inhaling deeply. “I won’t be running away with you tomorrow.”

 “Darling, don’t be silly,” he laughed. “Once the stitches are out, we’re free to—“

“No.” She shook her head firmly. Then she stepped toward him and took both of his hands in hers. “Garrett, listen to me. I’m not going with you. I’m going to Val Royeaux instead.”

“Val Royeaux? But why would you—“

His voice died away as the answer came to him: _Because she doesn’t love you._

“Oh,” he finished lamely. “I see.”

Garrett waited for his stomach to plummet, for the tears to come, for the usual symptoms of heartbreak and rejection to set in. But curiously, nothing happened. The only response his body had to offer was a lack of it. 

Well, _that_ didn’t make any sense. He certainly hadthe capacity for devastation; after all, hadn’t hebeen moping ever since that fight he’d had with Anders at the party? Maybe he’d simply used up all his misery on that, leaving him no tears to spare now. Did it even work like that?

Garrett searched his feelings. No, it wasn’t that. It felt more like losing a wallop match, after having not attending practice for a week. Like deep down, he’d been expecting this outcome all along. 

And then he felt it—the telltale flutter in his chest.

_Relief._

“Why the change of heart?” he said, to cover up his surprise.

“Because,” she sounded tired, “my heart has changed, and I can’t change it back.” There were no tears in her eyes now. “Because I am a silly girl and you deserve somebody who loves you as a man, and not just out of some misguided sense of nostalgia.” 

Someone who loved him as a man...what a curious choice of words. Was there any left in Kirkwall even willing to do that anymore? Had there ever been?

Garrett took his hands back and jammed them in his pockets. His fist bumped against the lighter Anders had given him so long ago, the one he carried with him wherever he went. His fingers relaxed, opened, then curled once more around the cool metal.

“It’s too late for us, is that it?” he said.

“No. Timing was never the problem.” She smiled gently and patted his cheek.  “Garrett, _lethallin_ , we could never have made one another happy. We can barely even hold a conversation.”

Garrett remembered their disastrous chat on the veranda the other day and smiled weakly. How relieved he’d been when Anders had suddenly appeared, like a chevalier to the rescue.

“Oh, don’t pout. I know you’ll recover,” she continued. “You’ll be torn up for a while, but you’ll find someone new. Maybe you already have. Your fiancee, perhaps—or someone else.”

Garrett sighed. Memories, unbidden, came to him. The gleam of morning sun in blond hair. The feel of stubble scraping against his palms. The solid weight of another man’s thighs. Laughter. Breath. Want. All memories that Garrett had been trying his damndest not to remember for several days now.

“What I do know is,” said Merrill, smiling through her tears, “it’s never too late for true happiness. For you, for me. For anyone.” 

“So this is goodbye, then?” Garrett swallowed. He simply couldn’t understand this. When he’d seen Merrill at the train station three days ago, he’d been sure she was a sign from the heavens. Now he wondered if he’d misinterpreted the Maker’s signals all along.

“It is.” Her smile widened the faintest amount. “Thank you for the kisses. They were very nice.”

“I do my best.” Garrett chuckled, but not as sadly as he’d expected. “One for the road?”

More tears welled in her eyes as she took his face in her hands once more and kissed him, briefly, on the cheek.

 “Goodbye, Garrett,” she said.

He left the little apartment then, closing the door behind him. But he did not go down the stairs. Instead, he placed his hands on the walkway railing and looked up at the sky, where the bright moon had begun to wane. It was so beautiful, high above everything, yet now it offered him so little comfort; its light full, cold, lifeless.

Garrett let out a long breath. For the first time in his life, he had no idea what he wanted to do next.


	17. The Sucker Punch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carver makes a terrible pot of coffee, while Garrett comes to the rescue.

Sunlight had barely crested the skyline of upper Hightown when Mrs. Hendyr knocked on the office door.

Carver didn’t answer, his attention fixed instead on the small travel mirror he’d leaned against a can of tomato juice. He rinsed his razor in the mini-bar’s sink, then drew the blade down his cheeks once more. Shaving cream would have made this much easier. But he’d run out a few days ago and, with all the fuss about Merrill, he hadn’t had the time to replenish his office supply. There had been other, more important things to worry about than his comfort.

As usual. 

Without waiting for further invitation, Mrs. Hendyr entered Carver’s office. She set a heavy-looking stack of mail down on his desk. “Good morning,” she said.

“You’re late,” he grunted, dragging the blade up and down his chin. “I had to make my own coffee. It was the worst ever. You know how terrible I am in a kitchen.” 

She frowned severely at him. “You certainly _look_ terrible,” she said archly, eyeing him up and down. “Did you even go home last night?”

Nicking himself, Carver winced.

“No.” He reached for the roll of toilet paper he’d set nearby. Ripping off a small square, he jabbed it against his neck. “Too many things to do.”

“I see.” Mrs. Hendyr’s frown melted into a cheeky, knowing smirk that made Carver want to dock her pay. “So where’s Merrill?”

He glared at her. Mrs. Hendyr wasn’t usually this nosy. He didn’t care for it. “She’s at home, I presume.”

“Oh—heh—I see.” Mrs. Hendyr shuffled backward, her gaze fixed on the razor in Carver’s hand. Confused, he looked down to see that he’d come to grip the blade as a chevalier might heft a halberd.  “Let me—let me just get a pad of paper, and we can make a list of those things that need doing, shall we?”

“Yes.” Relaxing his grip on the razor, Carver returned to his mirror. “That would be a good idea.”

As Mrs. Hendyr scurried off, Carver scolded himself. He should be nicer to her. He already had enough to feel guilty about; he didn’t need to add terrifying the only woman in Thedas who could still tolerate his company to the list.

Besides, he really needed her to remake the coffee.

Carver was tired. Exhausted, really. He couldn’t remember feeling so weary in all his life. There was a couch in his office, but he hadn’t bothered to sleep last night; he’d tried, but as soon as he closed his eyes, Merrill had appeared behind them, doe-eyed and heartbroken. So he’d gotten up, tried to read some reports instead. But that hadn’t been successful either: After a few minutes the words swam together and Carver once more heard her voice ring in his ears like a Chantry chorus, admonishing him to just _take what you want, why won’t you take what you want, Carver you’re such a coward—_

But today was a new day. The market had opened. The coffee had been brewed. And while Carver might be completely and utterly miserable, at least he had things to do.

If there was one thing this blasted company was good for, it was keeping himself busy.

A few moments later, Mrs. Hendyr returned with a pencil and paper in hand. Carver began to speak very quickly, barely pausing for breath between sentences.

“First, call Hawke Shipping,” he said, tugging the razor across his skin in short, efficient strokes. “Tell them to radio all our caravans bound for the Harriman mines to turn back. Also call Hawke Construction. Tell them to stop work on the new plant. We’re cancelling the lyrium merger.”

The tip of Mrs. Hendyr’s pencil snapped. “What?”

Carver splashed some water on his cheeks and swabbed himself with a dish towel. Then he inspected his handiwork in the mirror. He grimaced. Maker, he really _did_ look terrible. Sallow skin, deep circles under his eyes. He looked like a hurlock in a business suit.

 _Finally,_ he thought, _the outsides match the insides._

“Next,” he continued, rinsing his razor and setting it aside, “I want Garrett, Gamlen, Lord Harriman and Miss Flora Harriman in this office as soon as possible. We’re calling off the wedding.”

“ _What?”_  Mrs. Hendyr stared in shock.

Ignoring her, Carver grabbed his tie and walked over to his desk. “What’s the number of the Darktown Children’s Hospital?”

“I can look it up,” said Mrs. Hendyr, when she’d recovered sufficiently. “Why?”

“We’re sending them 2,000 lilies,” he replied.

Rather than meet her questioning gaze, Carver focused on looping the tie around his neck. Up, under, over. He could probably do this in his sleep by now. There was once a time when he could clean a gun in his sleep; now, all he could do was tie a tie. Funny what the lives of soldiers became when they’d lived too long. 

Carver nodded his chin toward the boat ticket, still sitting on his desk where Merrill had left it. He could barely look at the thing without his stomach churning in revulsion. “There’s a ticket to _L’Elephant Libere,”_ he ground out. “Have it transferred to my brother’s name. Better find his passport and make sure it’s in order too.”

“Carver Hawke,” said Mrs. Hendyr in what he sometimes affectionately called her Captain of the Guard voice. Small children and CEOs alike usually quailed in its path. “Tell me what in Thedas is going on. Right. Now.”

But Carver had neither time nor energy for quailing this morning. Too much to do.

Straightening the knot of his perfectly tied tie, he continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Next, see if you can locate my brother. The boat sails at noon. I’ve been calling the house for an hour, but he isn’t there. Try Dr. Lirene. Try Anders’s quarters. Try anywhere. But _get him_.”

Carver flipped his collar down over his tie and picked up the stack of mail. But Mrs. Hendyr didn’t move. 

“That’s all,” he added.

More stillness.

Sighing, Carver met her gaze. “Yes, Mrs. Hendyr?”

Mrs. Hendyr pursed her lips at him like a disappointed schoolteacher. Then, after a moment’s regard, her eyes softened, and something close to sympathy crept into her expression. Carver hated it.

“I assume she didn’t take the news very well,” she offered gently. 

“She took it just fine.” His eyes slid from hers. He just couldn’t take all that kindness, especially when he didn’t deserve an ounce of it. “Better than we could ever have hoped.”

“Then why are you so— “

“So _what_?” he growled.

Mrs. Hendyr shook her head. “Nevermind. Do you still want me to send those presents to her cabin?”

“No,” he replied, his voice gruff. He turned his attention back to the mail. “We’re sending Garrett instead.”

Knuckles briskly rapped on the jamb of the open office door. Carver looked up. Standing in the doorway was Garrett, looking as dashing as ever in his fitted, freshly-pressed suit. His lips tilted upward in a crooked smile. He looked every inch the knight in shining armor. Carver wanted to punch him. 

“Good morning,” Garrett chirruped. Both Carver and Mrs. Hendyr glared at him as he breezed into the office, a bounce in his step that was almost obscene. “You’ll be happy to know the stitches are out.” He patted his rump. “I’m good as new.”

“Congratulations,” grunted Carver. He didn’t like that cheerful look on his brother’s face, not one bit. Even after all that hard work, Garrett had still won; he’d gotten his way again, just as he always did. The least he could do was not gloat about it. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“And _I’ve_ been looking for _you_ ,” replied Garrett, jabbing his finger in Carver’s direction. 

Carver narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t in the mood for his brother’s games, not today. ”You’re leaving for Val Royeaux at noon,” he said. “It’s all been arranged.”

“You don’t say,” said Garrett without a hint of surprise.  

“With Merrill,” continued Carver, irritated at his brother’s lack of excitement. “She’ll be on the boat too.”

“You don’t say,” repeated Garrett. Carver wanted to throttle him. His brother should be leaping for joy; yet all Garrett could do was just stand there and smirk at him like he knew Carver’s darkest secret. Ungrateful little tit. “Aveline, dear, would you mind giving us a minute?”

Mrs. Hendyr looked to Carver, who nodded his dismissal. She left the room, but not before shooting Garrett a warning glance that would terrify even the most stalwart of ruffians into virtuous behavior. Garrett, however, did not seem perturbed in the slightest.

“What’s the matter with you?” said Carver, once she was gone. He dropped the mail stack on his desk, where it landed with a loud _smack_. “Aren’t you pleased by the news?”

Garrett chuckled darkly, fiddling with something in his hand. It caught the light with a flash; Carver could see that it was his small, silver lighter.

“I saw Merrill when she came home last night,” said Garrett at last.

Carver’s chest ached, as if his brother had run him through with a sword. “Oh?”

“Yep.” Garrett casually tossed the lighter up in the air, then caught it. “I found her packing.”

Carver leaned across his desk in what he hoped was a casual and only minimally threatening manner. “And what did she say?”

Garrett seemed about to say one thing, then, after regarding his brother’s posture, changed his mind. “Nothing, really,” he said, pocketing the lighter. “She just kissed me.”

“So?” Carver tried not to collapse on his desk in misery. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Well,” Garrett shot his brother a sidelong glance. “I may know nothing about stock options or equity indexes, but I do know something about kisses.”

“Indeed. You could give a lecture series on that at Gallows U.” Carver brought his fingers to the nick on his chin and ripped off the toilet paper, not caring if the cut had stopped bleeding or not. 

Garrett rubbed his beard thoughtfully. “I’d say this one was a goodbye kiss.”

“Pah,” Carver waved a hand dismissively. “You’re imagining things.” 

“Nope,” insisted Garrett. “It had a few tears in it.”

Carver looked down and away, flooded with shame. He’d done that to her. And the worst part was, he wasn’t even sorry—well, he was sorry to have hurt her, _very_ sorry about that. But part of him, a small petty part, felt a thrill to know that she cared enough to cry over him. That he meant something to her. He wished he didn’t need that so much, but he did. 

“You know, I’m not very bright,” continued Garrett. His voice was still sunny, but his eyes held no matching twinkle. “It took me until this morning to add two and two together. Like two champagne glasses, and the lyrium deal and Merrill. And you know what I got?”

Carver looked up. “What?”

Garrett punched him.

His fist landed square across Carver’s jaw. The blow was so powerful and unexpected that Carver couldn’t defend himself, couldn’t do anything but totter backward into his chair. For a moment he simply sat there, reeling, too stunned to move. 

“You bastard,” snarled Garrett. “I can’t believe you’d sink so low.”

Carver shook his head to clear it, then rose from his chair. Squaring his shoulders, he stood up as straight as he could manage.

“Then consider us even,” he growled.

If this was going to come to blows, then so be it. Carver welcomed it. Garrett might be the older brother, but Carver was still the larger one. It would be a relief to finally give up the pretense of words, to let go of this tired, ridiculous notion that he was a rational man who could solve his problems any other way than with blood. 

Carver had already given up so much for Garrett, _to_ Garrett. He’d already lost so much. At least if they fought, then Carver might finally prevail over his stubborn—childish—self-absorbed—infuriating _brat_ of an elder brother. 

If he couldn’t have Merrill’s love, then at least he could have that.

They stood motionless for several heartbeats, glaring at each other, violence ready to erupt at any second.

In the end, however, Carver looked away first.

Merrill—she wouldn’t want this. She wasn’t the sort of person who relished violence, or wanted men to fight over her. She especially wouldn’t want him to turn on Garrett, to pounce on his brother like an animal, taking his rage and frustration out on him simply because he was too chicken-shit to let it out any other way. 

Who was he really mad at here? His brother? Or himself?

Carver forcibly relaxed his clenched fists.

“Go home, Garrett,” he said dully. “Get packing. I’ll take care of Flora, and Lord Harriman, and the other. I’ve called an emergency board meeting at noon, where I’m calling off the merger.” Carver dragged a hand over his face, feeling the adrenaline ebb away, leaving him cold and empty inside.  “Mrs. Hendyr will have your passport and your ticket. Let her know if you need any money. I want you and Merrill to have a good time in Val Royeaux. Have a good life together. Make her happy. Goodbye.”

But Garrett didn’t move. In fact, as Carver spoke, his elder brother did the oddest thing: He _smiled_.

“Oh,” he murmured.

“Oh?”

“Yes,” insisted Garrett. “ _Oh._ As in, ‘Oh, I can’t believe how blind I’ve been.’ And, ‘Oh, everything makes a lot more sense now.’”

“Oh,” said Carver, feeling too tired to care what his brother was on about now. It was always a game with Garrett; life was just one big game, a joke waiting for his punchline. “Oh, as in, ‘Oh, good for you.’ Now go on. You don’t have much time. She’s waiting for you.”

Garrett crossed his arms. His smile widened the barest amount. “And what makes you so sure Merrill still wants _me?_ ”

A flicker of hope came alive in Carver’s chest. He squashed it.

“Of course she wants you, brother.” Carver wished Garrett would stop goggling at him. “She’s wanted you all her life.”

Garrett nodded, white teeth flashing against beard. “Until _you_ came along.”

That was it. Carver was out of patience.

“Maker damn you, Garrett, _get out of my office,_ ” he roared. He leaned over and poked his brother in the chest, hard, giving enough force to push him back a few inches. “You’ll miss the boat.”

“Oh, don’t you worry. _I_ won’t miss the boat.” Garrett began to walk toward the door. “You know, it’s the funniest thing. Carver Hawke—the man who doesn’t burn, doesn’t scorch, doesn’t melt—suddenly throws a twenty million sovereign deal out the window.” Shaking his head, he stepped out of the office and past the still open doorway. Then he turned back, still grinning like Sandal with his goldfish Enchantment. “Are you sure _you_ don’t want to go with her?”

Carver ground his teeth. “Why should I want to go with her?”

Garrett shot his brother a smug, pitying look—the kind of look only older brothers could ever master.

“Because,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “you’re in love with her.”

Carver didn’t reply. Instead, he jabbed a button on his desk, and the office door slammed shut in Garrett’s face. 

***

As the door closed, Garrett chuckled and shook his head.

“Oh Aveline,” he said to the secretary who he knew had heard the entire exchange through the open doorway. “Ain’t love grand?”

Mrs. Hendyr looked up from the coffee maker. Her lips curled upward in a knowing smile. “So the magazine ads always say.”

“My brother’s a complete idiot, you know.”

“It’s not his fault,” she said, pouring out the sludge currently in the coffee pot. “He _is_ a Hawke, after all.”

“Point taken.” Garrett regarded the shut door and rubbed his hand. His knuckles ached from where they’d connected with Carver’s enormous, empty bone-head. But it had been worth it. It had all been worth it. Because now he knew his little brother wasn’t just an idiot; he was also _in love_. That meant Carver finally neededhis big brother, because love had always been Garrett’s area of expertise, not Carver’s.

 _Finally_ Garrett was going to get to do something of use.

“Aveline,” he said, “I have an idea.”

“Maker protect us all,” groaned Mrs. Hendyr.

“Get me Varric Tethras on line one.”

“The gossip columnist?”

“That’s the one. And get my fiancée on line two.” Garrett’s smile became wolfish as his plan began to take shape in his head. “We have some last-minute business to arrange.”

Mrs. Hendyr cocked one eyebrow. 

“Business,” she said. “ _You._ ”

“Why not?” He waggled his brows at her. “I am a businessman, aren’t I? I have the name plate for it.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You know, Aveline, I told him this would happen,” he continued with a wicked grin. “Plain as day, I told him: Come Thursday, the first team was taking over. I should be a fortune teller. Get those two on the phone. I’ll be in my office.”

Then he turned on his heel and started toward his office—only to stop and regard the room around him in confusion. 

“Aveline?”

“Yes?”

“One last thing.”

“Yes?”

 “Which one is my office again?”

***

In the front seat of the Fereldan Town Car, Merrill sat next to her mother and hugged Garrett the puppy to her chest. With every bump in the road, he snuggled his head closer. Merrill didn’t mind. His warmth and weight was comforting, reassuring. An anchor that kept her from drifting away.

She’d barely slept at all last night. Every time she’d managed, she dreamed of Carver—his voice, his touch, his kiss. But after the first few times of waking up choked with tears, she decided it wasn’t worth it anymore to attempt sleep. So instead she’d sat in her father’s chair and read old storybooks until the sun came up.

Merrill kept her eyes fixed on the road, watching the trees and road signs barrel past. Even though she’d grown up here, they all still seemed unfamiliar to her, the result of being away so many months. She hadn’t had time to get used to them again. And now she never would.

Back to Val Royeaux. The City of Dreams. The Land of Impossible Hats. A place of illusions and fantasy, where chauffeur’s daughters could learn culinary magic and even an elf could get ahead. She’d only just come home to Kirkwall, to reality, and here she was heading back again.

Truth be told, she hadn’t ever thought to go back to Val Royeaux. Last week—had it really only been a week?—she’d said her farewells to the city and its people and meant them. But maybe it was better this way. Maybe a dreamland of impossible things was where someone like her belonged.

If only she weren’t going alone.

She brushed the back of her hand against her eyes. At the sound of her sniffles, Marethari looked over worryingly at her daughter. “I’m so sorry, _da’len._ ”

“You said that already,” Merrill replied, her voice soft and dull. “You don’t need to keep saying it.”

“It’s just—“ Marethari sighed. “I’d feel so much better if you’d only be angry with me for allowing all this to happen.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Mother. It was mine. I made my choices.” Merrill rested her chin on the puppy’s head. “I should have known better. I shouldn’t have reached for the moon.”

“No, Merrill. This time, the moon reached for you.” Merrill smiled sadly, knowing that the concession must have cost her mother’s pride dearly. Marethari continued, “But I should have done something. I should have kept you safe. It’s as I always say: There’s a front seat and a back seat—“ 

“—and a window in between,” the two of them finished in tandem. 

Merrill knew that Carver didn’t care if she were a chauffeur’s daughter, or an elf, or a scullery maid in the court of the Tevinter Archon. He’d never cared. Her status—or lack thereof—had never been the problem between them.

Or, thought Merrill bitterly, maybe it had been the _only_ problem between them. For if she’d been born rich, would Carver have had to spend so much time and jump through so many hoops to keep her from his brother? Would he have even had a reason to go to her that night in the tennis courts?

If she had been rich, would they have ever fallen in love?

_You should take what you want._

_You know I can’t._

Merrill sighed at the memory. Money didn’t matter to her, but she seemed to be the only one to whom it didn’t matter. She only wished she’d known how much Carver valued it before she’d let him break her heart. 

“If it’s any consolation, one good thing’s come out of it.” Marethari looked back out at the road. “You did get over Garrett, didn’t you?”

A dry chuckle erupted from Merrill’s lips.

“Oh, Garrett.” Hearing his name, the puppy in her lap tried to roll over, squirming to beg scratches. He was so hungry for constant attention and affection; just like his namesake. With a watery smile, Merrill obliged. “Yes, I did get over that,” she murmured. “I’m cured. Now how to get over the cure?”

Marethari leaned one hand over the seat cushion. But rather than pat Merrill’s knee fondly, as Merrill expected, her mother just scratched the puppy’s head instead. 

“It wouldn’t have worked out, _da’len,_ ” she said. “Not really. The papers and everybody else would have said how fine and democratic it was for a Hawke to marry an elf, and a chauffeur’s daughter at that. But would they praise the elf? Would they laud the chauffeur’s daughter? Of course not. Democracy can be a wickedly unfair thing, Merrill. Nobody poor was ever called democratic for marrying somebody rich.”

Merrill wanted to argue, but couldn’t. It was true, all of it. Even without Garrett to consider, Carver’s heart had always been filled with tickertape, hadn’t it? His first love would always be his stocks. His _businessing_. She couldn’t compete with that.

Their love would have been a disaster, from start to finish. The sooner she accepted that, the happier she’d be.

“I wish I could hate him, Mother,” she said softly.

“I wish I could too,” Marethari replied. “But few elves have ever had the luxury of hating humans.”

Merrill smirked without humor.  “Why, Mother, haven’t you heard? It’s the Dragon Age. A brave new era of understanding and equality between the races.” 

Marethari gave a very unprofessional snort.

“The Dragon Age isn’t any better or more equal than the Blessed Age, or the Towers Age, or any other damned Age that came before it,” she said. “There’s just more money at stake now, that’s all.”

Feeling forlorn and adrift, Merrill turned her attention back out the window. “You’re certainly right about that.”


	18. The Third Act Miracle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, Garrett actually manages to save the day.

Like a caged bronto, Carver paced before the boardroom table, pausing every few seconds to look out the window behind him, past the streets and the skyline, to the sunlit harbor where she sat: _L’Éléphant Libéré._

From up here she looked small and innocuous, like a toy boat he could reach out the window and pluck from the water. All he’d have to do would be to stretch out his hand and take it. Take what he wanted. 

Merrill had to be on board by now and settled into her cabin. Maybe she was unloading her luggage. Or maybe she was taking her ridiculously-named puppy out for a stroll on the deck, stretching her lovely legs, getting herself lost in the bustle of boarding passengers. Maybe she’d already made friends, or even found that ‘really nice’ somebody with whom she could now share ice creams to her heart’s content. 

She was gone. For good.

The jangle of a martini shaker brought Carver back to himself. He glared at the bar, where at that moment Gamlen was finishing his usual preparations for a board meeting by pouring himself a drink. After dropping two fat olives into his glass, Gamlen slipped the entire jar into the back pocket of his trousers, apparently for safe-keeping, though the stealthiness of the move was somewhat abated by the way the jar obscenely bulged the fabric. 

“Can’t we start this meeting and sign the papers already?” said Gamlen, giving his martini an experimental sip. He nodded in satisfaction at the taste. “Unless Carver would prefer to brood at us for a little longer.”

Carver looked down the conference table. They were all here: Gamlen, Mrs. Hendyr, Lord Harriman, Flora. Everyone except for Garrett, who of course wasn’t coming. 

But Carver couldn’t quite bring himself to call this meeting to order. Not yet.

His gaze drifted back to the window.

“We have to wait for Garrett,” said Flora.

“As usual,” groused Lord Harriman.

“Now Father, don’t be cross. I’m sure he’ll be here any minute.” Despite her mild words, she cast a rather annoyed glance at the office door. 

“That boy has no sense of other people’s time, no sense at all,” grumbled Gamlen. He did not take a seat at the table but instead hovered near the bar. “Where _is_ he?”

“We’ll get to that in a minute,” Carver replied.

In the distance came the deep, powerful blast of a foghorn, once, twice, three times, indicating that a boat had just set sail. Carver’s stomach sank. A horn that loud could only belong to an ocean liner, like _L’Éléphant Libéré._

He scanned the harbor only to find that _L’Éléphant Libéré_ had indeed begun to drift out to sea, trailing fat clouds of smoke behind her.

For a long moment, Carver did nothing but watch the boat and listen to his own heartbeat. It was all over now. Garrett was on the boat with Merrill, and he was here, and that was that.

He expected at any moment to be overcome with pain, sorrow, guilt, regret. Anything. But all Carver could feel inside was hollowness, the absence of feeling; an emptiness that, come to think of it, he couldn’t remember ever _not_ feeling.

This was who he truly was: not a creature of thought and feeling, but an automaton, a golem, whose only purpose in existence was to serve the needs of those around him. 

It was better this way.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he said, turning back to the table. “I see no need for further delays. Let’s get down to business.”

“I really think we ought to wait for Garrett,” insisted Flora.

Carver shook his head. “That won’t be necessary.”

“Daddy.” Flora swiveled in her chair and leveled her father with a sweet smile. Her voice raised several octaves. “I really think we ought to wait for Garrett.”

Nodding sagely at his daughter, Lord Harriman said, ”Hawke, I think we ought to wait for Garrett. It’s standard protocol to have all members of the board present and accounted for, is it not?”

“About that—“ Carver cleared his throat. “Lord Harriman, members of the Board, Flora,” he began, nodding to each person in turn. “We are gathered here today to put our signatures to joining of two companies, Hawke Industries and Harriman Mining.” His words and gestures felt mechanical, as if he were just a tin soldier, marching along to somebody else’s whim.  “Much effort has gone into making this union possible. There were long hours and many obstacles to overcome. Nobody knows better than I.”

Briefly, Carver had a vision of Merrill in her checkered blouse and shorts, laughing into the sea spray, the sunlight catching in her hair.

He shook his head to dispel the memory.

“However, sometimes even the most conscientious of businessmen can botch a deal,” he continued, “for one reason or another.”

Lord Harriman narrowed his eyes, while his daughter cast one last desperate look at the door.

“I think I missed something,” said Gamlen, finally drifting over to the conference table. He hovered like a peeved ghost by Lord Harriman’s shoulder. “Would you mind starting all over again?”

Carver took a steadying breath. The time had come to do what needed to be done, for the good of his family, for the good of the woman he loved.  “Flora, I hate to break the news to you, but at this very moment, your fiancé, Mr. Garrett Malcolm Hawke, is—“

“—late, as usual.”

Every head in the room turned toward the door; there was Garrett, an umbrella in one hand and a briefcase in the other, smiling as he leaned casually against the jamb. 

***

“Hello everybody,” said Garrett as he strolled into the room. He tried not to strut, or preen, or do anything else that might give himself away, though resisting the urge was quite difficult with his little brother gawping at him like a Starkhaven trout. Truly, Garrett hadn’t seen him this dumbstruck since they were kids, when he’d shown his brother Miss Wintermarch 9:20, the famous Fereldan _Swords and Shields_ centerfold.

“Sorry I’m late,” he blithely continued. “Traffic was terrible. I’ve heard of this ‘rush hour’ before, but never seen it firsthand.” Garrett shook his head disapprovingly. “What a disgrace to the modern highway system.”

Garrett caught Mrs. Hendyr’s eye, and she winked at him twice. Good. Everything was in place. He strode over to Flora and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “Hello, darling.”

Flora grabbed onto his arm, nails digging into his flesh. “Did you really have to wait until the last possible second to show up?” she hissed into his ear.

“Where’s your sense of drama?” he whispered back.  

She let him go, muttering, “The things I do for twenty million sovereigns.”

“The things we all do,” he replied loftily. Then he stood straight and returned his attention to his brother, who still hadn’t closed his mouth or moved at all—or, to Garrett’s knowledge, even blinked.  “Why Carver!” he said, a smile blooming on his face. “It’s so good to see you this morning. How are you?”

Garrett bit back a chuckle as Carver spun on his heel, searching through the window for _L’Éléphant Libéré._ Garrett said nothing, instead letting his brother take his time to process the reality of the situation before him.

After a moment, Carver turned back around.

As children, Garrett had angered Carver plenty of times. On some level, he’d even considered it his brotherly duty; after all, Father always said that it was important for growing boys to be in touch with their emotions. But it had been years since Garrett had seen his brother as furious as this: purple-faced and shaking, as if he were a raging bronto ready to charge down the table and gore him with his gavel. The sight gave him a sharp pang of nostalgic pride. 

“What are you doing here?” snarled Carver.

“I heard there was a board meeting.” Garrett leaned his umbrella against Flora’s chair and placed his briefcase on the table. “Where are the contracts? Where do I sign?”

Carver’s hands clenched into fists, and Garrett was sure he could see steam rising from his brother’s ears. “Where’s Merrill?”

“Not that garage girl again,” moaned Gamlen. “Doesn’t she have a car to wash?”

Garrett ignored his uncle, keeping his gaze fixed and steady on his brother. “She’s on the boat, I suppose.”

“But the boat has sailed!”

Garrett smirked. “ _Bon voyage.”_

“Why?” Carver’s voice shook, as he regarded his brother with open loathing. “Why would you do it?”

Garrett blinked with as much wide-eyed innocence as he could muster. “Do what?”

“You know what.” Curiously, the words seemed to deflate Carver, the fight whooshing out of him in one big rush. He relaxed his fists, hung his head. “Now she’s all alone out there.”

Garrett grinned broadly. If there had ever been a better set-up for a punch line, he hadn’t heard it yet. 

“Not according to the afternoon papers!” Opening his briefcase, Garrett drew out a copy of the morning’s _Merchant’s Guild Daily._ “According to the latest _Hard in Hightown_ , Carver Hawke—that’s you, isn’t it?—and Merrill Sabrae—that’s she, isn’t it?—have quietly reserved adjacent deck chairs on the _L’Éléphant Libéré,_ sailing today.” He tsk-tsked and shook his head in mock awe. “My, my, that Tethras certainly has his fingers on the pulse of Kirkwall, doesn’t he?”

Carver snatched the paper from his brother. His gaze raced across the page. “Did _you_ plant this?”

“Me?” Garrett laughed. “Isn’t it common knowledge about you and Merrill?”

Slapping the paper down on the table, Carver stalked once more to the window. Behind his back, Garrett gleefully bounced on his heels. Maker, he’d been waiting all morning to say that. 

“Who is Merrill?” said Lord Harriman.

“Our chauffeur’s daughter, that’s who,” replied Garrett, placing both hands on the table and leaning in like a consummate gossip. “Now how about that? Carver Hawke, Knight-Captain of finance, CEO and Chairman of the Board of Hawke Industries—getting mixed up with his chauffeur’s daughter.”

“That’s enough,” growled Carver without turning around.

But whether through fraternal instinct or years of trial and error, Garrett sensed his brother’s breaking point was near and pressed on. 

“She went after me for a while,” he said with his cockiest grin. “But then she switched to Carver, I guess because he’s got more money than I do. Now, we all know about those kinds of girls,” Garrett met Mrs. Hendyr’s eye, who played along and nodded gamely. He reminded himself to compliment her on her acting skills once this was all over. Maybe give her a raise too, if he was in charge of that sort of thing. “Believe me, this one is no different. She just seems to be.”

“I said, that’s enough.” At this, Carver did turn around. A vein throbbed dangerously on the side of his neck.

“Really, Garrett, maybe you should stop,” whispered Flora.

But Garrett ignored her too, instead baring his teeth in a wide, vicious grin. “Maybe you got smart, Carver, or maybe you just got lucky, because you’re here and she’s out there. But believe me, brother, I’ve known plenty of girls just like her, and she would have taken you for plenty—“

Carver charged forward and punched him in the jaw. 

***

Bone cracked smartly on Carver’s knuckles, and Garrett slid down the table, knocking over papers and pens until finally skidding to stop in front of Flora.

Carver’s hands shook. It was as if Garrett had stuck a live wire into him, jolting him back to awareness. Every feeling he’d ever had flooded back to him: all the rage, the hurt, the loneliness and desire. He had to let it out. One way or another, he had to let it out.

“Ow,” said Garrett, rubbing his jaw. “That hurt, you know.”

Carver was so furious he couldn’t even form words. He merely growled and flung himself toward his brother.

But suddenly Mrs. Hendyr was between him and Garrett. Placing her hands on his shoulders, she pushed him back with considerable strength. “None of that now, Mister Hawke.”

Blood pounded in his ears, the long-forgotten drumbeat of battle and righteous anger. He’d forgotten how good it felt to let the rage take over, how powerful it made him and how _alive._ “Let me go, Aveline,” he said, trying his best to shuffle around her.

“Maker, Carver, stop!” A satisfyingly terrified whine had crept into Garrett’s voice, one that made Carver feel like a mabari about to sink his teeth into the hare. “I was just helping you come to your senses.” 

Carver blinked. The fog of bloodlust dimmed somewhat. “What?”

“You _are_ in love with her,” said Garrett, grinning. “You can’t hide anything from me.”

Slowly, the rage began to subside. Suddenly Carver realized he was standing in the middle of his conference room, panting heavily, his brother’s blood on his knuckles, and he felt very, very foolish.

“I am in love with her,” he murmured, testing the weight of it on his tongue. It was the first time he’d said those words aloud. But there was something to them, some indefinable power that made him want to find the nearest rooftop and shout them over and over again until he was hoarse. “I _am_ in love with Merrill.” 

Then behind him, _L’Éléphant Libéré_ once more blasted her foghorn, and whatever tenuous thing Carver had just managed to grab hold of began to slip through his fingers once more.

“So what if I am?” he said through his teeth. His suit jacket began to feel oddly heavy, as if it were calcifying around him—no, around the empty space that used to be him. “What does it matter now? The ship has sailed. She’s gone for good.”

“Why, brother, that’s the best part.” Garrett leaned back on his elbows, comfortable as ever, as if he’d always meant to find himself sprawled across a boardroom table. “The ship has sailed, but not _your_ ship, you see?”

Carver frowned. “What?”

Garrett rolled his eyes. “There’s an elevator outside, a police escort downstairs, and a tugboat standing by at Hawke Shipping, Pier #7. There’s still time; you can still catch up to her. But you’ll have to run.”

Carver didn’t move. His brother had said a lot of things just now, all at once, none of which made any sense. _“What?”_

“Run. It’s easy. Just put one foot in front of the other, very fast.” Garrett wiggled his fingers to demonstrate. 

Carver roughly dragged a hand over his cheeks. “Garrett, you’re not making any sense.”

“You once said we all had our roles to play in carrying on the Amell line. Well, this is mine.” The smile had died from Garrett’s face, and all trace of smugness was gone from his voice. With the beard, he almost looked like Father. “I’m giving you your second chance, brother. So try not to screw it up.”

Carver fell still as his brother’s words finally sunk in.

_A second chance._

His brother was giving him a second chance to make things right.

In the entire history of their relationship, Carver couldn’t remember a time his brother had ever offered him the opportunity for a second chance. Usually Carver was the one doling out second chances, and third ones, and fourths. To be on the receiving end from his brother was a little disorienting, to say the least.

“How did you manage this?” he said at last.

 _“Brother_ ,” said Garrett, every ounce of smug superiority returning to his voice and then some. He hopped off the table and walked over to Carver, slinging an arm around his shoulders—not without considerable effort, however, considering how much larger and taller Carver was. “I don’t know if you were aware, but we are, as they say in Hightown, _filthy stinking rich._ That does have its advantages.”

Carver didn’t bother to shake off his brother’s arm. “I can’t believe you did all this.”

“Don’t be silly.” Garrett clapped him on the back. “Mrs. Hendyr did all the heavy lifting, as usual. You really ought to give her a raise, you know.”

“You really should, Mister Hawke,” she agreed. 

“No—Yes—I—I mean—“ Carver opened and closed his mouth several times, grasping for the right words to say. But it was as if he’d completely forgotten trade tongue; all the syllables that came to mind had no meaning, only sound. The best he could come up with was, “I’m proud of you, Garrett. I’m proud to call you brother.”

Garrett rolled his eyes again but looked touched anyway. He gave Carver’s shoulder a firm squeeze. “I know, I know. What a brother, am I right?” Then he steered Carver toward the end of the table, grabbed the umbrella and the briefcase, and shoved them both into his brother’s hands. “Now get moving!”

Carver nodded dumbly.

He could still catch her. There was still time.

He could still take what he wanted, if he was just brave enough to do it.

 _Was_ he brave enough to do it?

Carver looked in turn to each face before him, as if they might have the answer he lacked. There was Gamlen, glaring into his drink. Flora, with a patient smile, as if this were the opening act to a concert for which she had box seats. Lord Harriman, bewildered, as if he’d wandered in looking for the washroom. Mrs. Hendyr, smiling as indulgently as a school principal. And Garrett, flashing a grin so obscenely wide that there were likely laws against it in several Tevinter provinces. 

Then Carver’s eyes landed on the medal hanging behind his desk, and he knew he had his answer.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen—” he said, walking toward the door, “—if you excuse me—” each step became quicker than the last, “—it appears that I have a previous engagement.”

Carver broke into a run. 

***

“That’s the Dragon Age for you,” muttered Gamlen as Carver left. “Broken deals. Shirked duty. Chauffeur’s daughters!”

Garrett paid his uncle no heed. Instead, he regarded the doorway through which his brother had disappeared and slipped a hand into his pocket, where his fingers found the cool steel of Anders’s lighter. Garrett smiled.

He knew his brother would make it on time. He had an instinct for these things.

And if there was still time for his brother, then maybe there was still time for him too.

“Well, ladies and gentlemen,” he said with renewed vigor. “Where were we?”

“I believe we were just about to call off a wedding,” offered Flora.

“Ah yes,” said Garrett. “How could I forget?”

“What’s this?” cried Lord Harriman and Gamlen simultaneously.

“Flora and I talked it over this morning.” Garrett grabbed the empty chair next to Flora and spun it around, sitting into it backwards. “We decided we’re not getting married after all.”

“But the merger!” said Lord Harriman.

“What is this, the Towers Age?” Garrett shook his head. “Who needs a marriage for a merger anymore anyhow?”

“Frankly, Daddy, I was just using him to get us the deal anyhow.” She chuckled fondly and patted Garrett’s arm. “I’d already had the divorce papers drawn up.”

“See? She was just using me.” Garrett beamed as if it were the greatest thing he’d ever heard. Not all that far from the truth, actually. When he’d spoken with Flora this morning, he hadn’t expected her to be quite so amenable to the idea of breaking off their engagement; were he a more prideful man, her enthusiasm for his plan might have stung a little. Lucky then for him that he wasn’t a prideful man—at least, not about this. “We’re both sensible people. We’ll sign the merger anyway. Nobody has to get married at all.”

“But what about the ceremony, and the reception?” sputtered Gamlen. “Over 500 guests are on their way right now!”

“We’ll still hold the reception,” replied Flora, a keen gleam in her eye, “except we’ll turn it into the marketing event of the Dragon Age: a celebration of high finance and partnership, and the largest merger in Kirkwall history. We’ll already have every journalist this side of the Free Marches coming. Imagine the PR!” 

“Well,” said Lord Harriman slowly, turning his pen over and over in his hands, “I _do_ like a good party.”

“It’ll be the best,” Garrett assured him.

“No!“ Gamlen slammed his empty martini glass on the table. “You impertinent brat! This isn’t how it’s supposed to go! You’re supposed to get married!”

“Never did like playing by the rules,” replied Garrett, “especially when the game isn’t fair.”

“I won’t allow it!” Gamlen stamped his foot. “By Andraste, I won’t allow it!”

“Mister Amell—“ began Flora, but Garrett, spotting something unusual about his uncle’s appearance, cut her off with a wave of his hand. Forget reasoning with the old coot. Garrett had a better idea.

“Gamlen. _Uncle_.” He smiled beneficently. “Let’s all sit down and talk this over like civilized people.” He gestured toward the empty chair in front of Gamlen. “Go on, Uncle. Sit down.” 

Gamlen eyed him distrustfully.

“ _Please_ ,” added Garrett.

Gamlen did as he was asked and fell heavily into his chair—only for there to be a great crackling noise, and the sound of glass breaking. Garrett smiled wickedly.

“Ah!” screamed his uncle. “The olives!”


	19. The Grand Finale

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merrill boards a boat. So does Carver. Their story comes to its end--or, more accurately, its beginning.

 

Merrill watched as a half-grown girl with red cheeks leaned over the railing of _L’Éléphant Libéré_ and waved to a white-haired man on shore below. “ _Au revoir, papa!”_ the girl cried.

“ _Bon voyage!”_ he shouted back. His posture was as crisp as his clothes, his hair immaculate and well-oiled. Clearly he was the man of a great house: a valet, perhaps, or a butler. Someone of superior rank, Merrill thought bitterly, as far as that ever went among servants.

“ _Je vais tu manquer!”_ shouted the girl as she brushed sea-swept hair from her mouth and cheeks. She was young, Merrill noted, very young. _“Je promets d’ecrire!”_

Brushing a hand across his eyes, the girl’s father beamed and said nothing.

She continued to wave down at him, nearly knocking over the large black bag at her feet. It was an artist’s portfolio. There were always girls carrying them around in Val Royeaux, particularly in the Grand Cathedral square, where they sketched the grand friezes and the statues of Orlesian conquerors for judgement by the Masters. And now this girl--this silly, naive girl--would be the next to join their ranks.

Merrill felt a sharp stab of pity. How long would it take for her to realize that there was no room in the art world for the daughter of a valet? Would it be when her Master singled out her work for its crudeness on her very first day? Or when she fell in love with an Orlesian boy who, when he found out she hadn’t a penny to her name, would forget her for the woman he’d been betrothed to all along?

Merrill wondered how in Thedas the girl’s father could stand to be so cruel, sending his daughter off to a foreign land to expand her mind, when he already knew she’d never have a chance of exercising it.

At least the girl didn’t have pointed ears. She had that much going for her.

Unable to stomach the sight any longer, Merrill tugged on the leash in her hand and guided the puppy sternward. There she found her own bare patch of deck, one that looked out over the water and the cityscape instead of the pier. She leaned her elbows on the railing and let the sea air crash over her like a bad memory.

From here she could see the whole skyline of Kirkwall, from the cars scurrying about to the morning sunlight that twinkled on high-rise windows. It all seemed so small. So trivial. And yet…

Her gaze drifted, unbidden, to the one spire that soared over all the rest, gleaming like a lighthouse on the shore. The Hawke Industries Building. On the drive, her mother had said something about an emergency meeting of the board of directors, so Carver must be in that building right now.

Was he signing the lyrium deal? Was he giving a speech? Sipping a celebratory daiquiri? Her heart seized at the thought. Was Carver handling all those lawyers and executives and other creatures of industry just as deftly as he’d handledher?

Probably even better, she thought. He wouldn't even have to speak Orlesian to seduce _them_.

Tears flowed down Merrill's cheeks. She didn’t bother to wipe them away. She was done with trying to hide how she felt, or to pretend she didn't feel the way she did. Never again would she mold herself to fit into somebody else’s desires. Never again would she focus so intently on what she thought she wanted that she lost sight of all that mattered.

So lost in thought was she that when Garrett flopped against her legs, she nearly fell over backward.

“I know, boy,” she said, kneeling down to the puppy's level. She scratched the top of his head, and he leaned into her touch. “We only just arrived and now we have to leave. It’s not fair, is it?”

Whining slightly, he nudged her hand with his head.

“Me too, Garrett," she said softly. "Me too.”

She ought to come up with a different name for him. It was silly to still call him Garrett. It was silly for her to have _ever_ called him Garrett. But the pup had already learned his name, and there wasn’t any sense in teaching him a new one. By now, the dog was who he was. There was no taking any of it back.

“You want me to say I’m sorry for it, don’t you?” she said, scratching him until he panted. “Well, I’m not. I’m not sorry for any of it. Not one bit.”

By her side, the puppy, perhaps sensing his mistress’s distress, whined again.

“Cheer up, Garrett,” she said. “It’s never too late for true happiness.”

Merrill wiped her eyes and lifted her chin and watched the Hawke Industries Building get smaller, as the _L’Éléphant Libéré_ sailed away from the city that wasn’t home, the man who couldn’t love her, and the life that would never, ever be hers.

***

Carver burst through the warehouse door. Down Pier 7 he ran, sprinting as fast as his legs would carry him. His loafers were scuffed; he'd ripped several seams on his trousers and shirt. But he didn't care. He'd never care again. All he could see was the boat at the end of the pier; all he could hear was the pounding of his blood in his ears. It sounded suspiciously like his father's voice: _Look at our boy, Leandra. Look at our Hawke taking flight._

He hadn’t run this fast in months—no, years. In truth, not since Ostagar. Except now he was running _to_ something, rather than running away. Maybe, just maybe, there was still time to catch it.

What a fool he'd been! He loved Merrill. _He loved her._ The knowledge coursed through Carver's veins like electricity, like fire. _He loved her._ It was so obvious. How could he not have seen it before? _He loved her._ He'd always loved her, from the moment he saw her drive up to the estate in Garrett's coupe, wreathed by sunlight like Andraste. No, he thought between gasps, it had begun long before that. He'd loved her when he found her wriggling out from under the Chrysler Aravel two years ago like a soot-covered ladybug. No, it had been before that too. He'd loved her the night before he'd shipped out for the Ferelden front, one clenched fist hovering before her door, debating whether he should knock, wondering if he even dared.

No. Before that. He could keep going back, and back, and back, but the truth was, he'd always loved her, ever since she was a girl and he was a boy, wide-eyed and scab-kneed, desperate to prove himself, to be noticed. To be seen.

_How does our story end?_

It would damn well end with him boarding the boat on Thursday, even if Carver had to chase the blasted thing all the way to Val Royeaux. -

At the end of the pier, just as Garrett had said, waited a tugboat. As Carver came closer, he saw that this wasn't just any tugboat, however. It was one of theirs, an older vessel which Garrett had apparently set sail just for the occasion. On its side were faded, blocky letters that spelled out a name: _BETHANY II._

Warmth bloomed in Carver's chest. She would have appreciated this. She always did like a good fairy tale.

Carver threw the line and, with the same fluid grace Garrett used to hop into his coupe, leapt aboard the boat. "Let's go!" he cried up to the captain, a ragged looking man named Liam who Carver recognized from receiving at Hawke Shipping. Liam looked about as interested in Carver's command as he might be in a fly who'd landed on his lunch, but he pushed a few buttons and pulled levers anyway. Smoke puffed from the tugboat's exhaust. A horn blasted. Slowly, too slowly, the _BETHANY II_ began to pull away from the pier.

Carver ran to the bow and scanned the horizon. In the distance, the _L’Éléphant Libéré_ bobbed on the water, glinting like a jewel in the sun. It was shrinking by the second.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?” he yelled over the sea churn.

"She goes as fast as she goes," Liam shouted back.

"But I'm in a hurry!"

"Then turn into a dragon, messere," Liam offered.

Carver grunted in frustration and turned his attention back to the _L’Éléphant Libéré._ His fingers curled along the cold railing until his knuckles turned red, then white.

"Hold on, Merrill," he muttered into the sea spray. “I’m coming.”

***

After what felt like eternity, the _BETHANY II_ finally caught up to _L’Éléphant Libéré._ But though the boats sidled alongside each other for many minutes, the steamer had lowered no ladder nor dinghy for Carver to use in boarding, not even so much as a rope.

"What's taking them so long?" he shouted.

"They're verifying us," replied Liam irritably. "We've no manifest or documents. It's thrown them."

"Manifest? Documents?" Carver pounded his fist on the railing. "Blast it! Tell them I'm Carver Hawke!" He was being wild, he knew, but he didn't care. What good was being rich, anyway, if he couldn't even board a stupid ship when he needed to?

"I can't make 'em go any faster than they'll go." Liam fiddled with more buttons. "Carver Hawke will just have to wait."

Carver tugged at his hair. The sea spray dragged across his skin like a knife. Every second was an agony just knowing that Merrill was up there, heartbroken, believing that he didn't love her. That he'd never loved her.

He eyed the distance between the two boats. It wasn't much. The length of a tennis court, if they'd been on land. Yes, in fact, it _was_ quite close. Barely any distance at all.

Carver made up his mind.

"Captain!" He shucked his loafers. "I'm going over."

Liam's eyes boggled. "You can't! The wake's too choppy! You'll drown!"

"Then you'd better make sure they fish me out promptly," he said, and leapt overboard.

***

Stretching out her arms, Merrill sunk into the soft canvas. These deck chairs were truly luxurious, the most comfortable seat any elf in any realm had ever been allowed. She hadn't quite appreciated them the last time she'd been on the boat; back then, she'd been too busy lamenting her fate to take much notice of her fine accommodations. She was determined not to make the same mistake now.

At first, Merrill had taken a chair on the starboard side, where the sun was at its gentlest and she could watch the Kirkwall skyline recede, for however long that would take. But then some commotion had arisen, some dire ruckus that attracted the attention of every noble within a fifty league radius. Likely some fop had lost his hat or something. It didn't matter. Merrill hadn't the energy left in her to ignore the noise, so she simply moved herself to another spot on the deck, around the other side.

She exhaled, long and slow. She couldn't quite relax, not yet, maybe not for a long time, but she could at least try to deflate her tension. To let everything fall away, at least for awhile. Garrett, sensing an opportunity for snuggles, hopped up on the chair and curled about her feet. Merrill sighed again and closed her eyes.

She was just drifting off to some very terrible dreams about sovereigns and soufflés when someone said her name.

"Go away," she tried to say, though it came out more like, " _Grrrmph."_

"Merrill," the someone repeated. He sounded very familiar, distressingly so.

Without opening her eyes, she said, "If you are a figment of my imagination, then come back later. I have my fill of bad dreams at the moment. I'm in no mood for more."

The floorboard of the deck creaked, as the someone took a step closer. However, there wasn't any scuffling or clicking of a heel hitting wood; either that someone was a ghost or not wearing any shoes. Intrigued, Merrill opened her eyes.

Then she shut them again. She pressed the heels of her palms against cheeks. shook her head roughly, then dared to open her eyes once more.

Standing before her was Carver.

A very _wet_ Carver.

"Hello," he said rather breathlessly.

"You're wet," she said, unable to process much more than that. Garrett, however, was not so taken aback. He hopped off the deck chair and, tail wagging, ran to sniff Carver's bare feet. The purple toes wiggled. Garrett cocked his head at them, then began to pant.

Behind Carver, back to the starboard side where the crowd from before had gathered, trailed long, foot-shaped puddles. It was such an odd detail for Merrill to imagine that it suggested, impossibly, that Carver might actually be real. That _this_ was real.

"Yes, I—uh," Carver looked down at himself sheepishly, "the boat took too long. So I swam."

Merrill blinked. "The boat."

"Yes. A tugboat. The _BETHANY II,_ exactly."

"You—swam."

"I swam." He looked very much like the young boy she'd once known, the one with a shy smile who had sneaked her in to see the circus oliphants when they'd come to town. He fiddled his fingers. They shook violently. "I told you I was taking the boat to Val Royeaux on Thursday, and I meant it. I always keep my word."

Merrill's heart began to pound. Hesitantly, she stood. She wanted to go to him, to touch him, to determine for certain whether this phantom was flesh or fever dream. But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make her feet move. "You came."

"I came."

"But why?"

"Because I had to." He took another step forward. Slowly. Tentatively. Merrill's heart skittered. At any moment she was sure it would leap free of her chest and into the sky.

"Why?"

"Because," he swallowed, licking his lips, "because you were here." Another step now, another step on the path that led him inexorably to her, "Because I want—I want to be with you. Because I love you. Because—"

Merrill reached for him at the same instant he reached for her. They collapsed into each other's arms, like two ships colliding, like waves crashing onto the surf. Under her fingers he was broad and strong, not driftwood in the tide but a buoy, an anchor, solid, safe.

"—I love you," he whispered again into her hair. "I love you, Merrill. I love you."

"Carver," she murmured. "You're really here."

His hands tightened on her lower back. "I'm here," he said. "But only if you want me too."

Braced against his chest, Merrill felt her shock begin to subside and reality take its place. The things he was saying; what it all meant – she shouldn't trust him, she shouldn't let herself believe—and yet—and yet—

"I shouldn't be hugging you right now," she said without letting go.

"I know."

She leaned her head on his shoulder. "I should be very angry with you."

He set his chin on the top of her head. "It's okay if you are."

"I don't think I am, though," she said, knowing as she said it that it was true. "I don't think I'm angry at all."

He drew back from her then and brushed an errant lock of hair from her cheek. "Merrill, I don’t know if there’s a way to make up for what I’ve done—“

She offered a watery laugh. “This is a pretty good start.”

He returned her laugh in kind. "But I'm sorry." He buried his face in her neck, a wet press that was surely ruining the fine silk of her dress, not that it mattered one bit. "You were right, Merrill. You were right about everything. And I'm sorry for how I treated you."

He was shaking. It must have been very cold in the morning ocean. Merrill pulled him closer.

"All my life," he continued, "I’ve tried to do what was best for my family, for Ferelden. For everyone else. But I'm done with that. I want to make you happy, and myself. I want to be with you."

"But what about the company? Your family?"

"Hang the company," he said. The words rushed out of him, as if he was afraid they wouldn't make it out in time. "Hang the whole lot of it. My family will be fine. Or they won’t be, I don’t know. It doesn't matter. I'm going with you. With you is where I belong."

"Carver," she whispered against his chest. She thought about her tree on the outskirts of the Amell gardens. How it had held her so solidly all those years, kept her safe and suspended halfway to the sky. But now she knew it wasn’t the tree that had been solid. It had been her all along. And all she’d ever needed to do to be happy was step out of it, and feel the wet grass and the firm earth under her bare feet. "It's funny," she said slowly. "All this time, I'd been so sure of where my path would lead. So sure of who I was and wanted to be, that I couldn't see who I'd become. But I have perspective now. I know where I belong, too." She took a deep breath. "It's with you, _ma vhenan_. It's with you."

Carver sagged against her in relief. He pressed his lips tenderly to the tip of her ear. "Can you ever forgive me?"

"Of course," she said. "But Carver, you must promise me something."

"For you, my darling, anything. The sea. The sky. The moon."

Chuckling, she shook her head. "Not the moon. Anything but that."

"Then what?" He touched his forehead to hers. "You name it, and it's yours."

She held his gaze for a moment before continuing. "You must promise me that we shall live happily ever after."

Carver smiled.

"I promise," he said. Then he kissed her, warm and soft and deliberate. A cheer went up in the crowd behind them, but Merrill barely heard them. She let herself melt deeper into their kiss. This was certain. This was real. And for once in her life, everything was simple.

But simple is good, thought Merrill. It sneaks up on you, makes you smile. Maybe that should be enough once in a while.

***

EPILOGUE

Hawke Industries and Harriman Mining were happily married six days later. It was a most fortuitous match: The new lyrium smelters and foundries employed thousands throughout Kirkwall, and kept thousands more off the streets. Soon the expanded Hawke Industries was the largest employer of Fereldans in the entire city-state. Many children owed their full bellies and fixed teeth to the merger, which pleased Garrett greatly, and Hawke Industries's stock price soared 6.7%, which pleased everybody else.

Flora never left Kirkwall. As it turned out, she had quite the adept mind for business, and Garrett trusted much of the company's day-to-day operations to her careful eye. Three months after the merger, she was made CEO. Her first act of business was to move into Garrett's office and change the locks.

As for Garrett, shortly after Flora's appointment, he went on an extended holiday. It was the same night Anders quietly disappeared. Nobody saw either of them again for a very long time, though Mother often received postcards from far-flung, exotic destinations: the headwaters of the Amaranthine, the tallest peak in the Vimmarks, even one dire note from the Abyssal Reach. They were always signed the same way: "With love and happiness, Garrett and Anders". Flora was shocked to learn that while he was away, Garrett had begun collecting on a five-copper-a-month retirement pension.

Carver and Merrill eventually returned to Kirkwall, many months later. But they kept an apartment in Orlais for special occasions, such as the summer season, or the winter, or whenever they felt like it.

And, like in all the very best fairy tales, they both lived happily ever after.


End file.
